


The Balance of All

by morning_sun



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Multi, Named Reader, Original Character(s), Reader Is Not Chara, Reader Is Not Frisk, reader is crazy powerful so get ready for that, sans will probably love you either way, sans/reader - Freeform, you might be bad, you might be good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9515648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_sun/pseuds/morning_sun
Summary: He doesn’t know who you are, where the hell you came from, or how you have the power you do. But… you saved him- at least for the time being.Reader is named, described, and probably not you- sorry. But hey, you're going to be pretty awesome (if not without some major flaws) so I'm fine with you pretending to be a badass.





	1. Don't Call it a Comeback

**Author's Note:**

> OMG, I guess this is happening. *covers eyes and hits post*

You have always loved the way that mornings on the mountainside felt to you. The way they sounded, the way they smelled. It was one of the few things, after all these long years, that you still enjoyed. The way coffee tasted, the way music filled your soul, the way food brought you comfort, the way grass felt under bare feet…

And mornings, in the mountains.

Certainly there were other things you could still grasp onto, still say you loved- even. Orgasms, for one, had never grown tiring. And arguing has always given you a sharp satisfaction. Drinking- of all sorts- still was a joy you hadn’t been dulled to, and you had never, not even all these years later, stopped loving the way you felt when your named was said in reverence- or fear.

But life… life was not an adventure any longer. All that was left of friends, family, and lovers was memories and - with some preservation from you- tombstones. You no longer conquered, and there was no one left to defeat. Your powers were unsurpassed, and any enemies had long since been dealt with. The power that surged through you was wasted. It was no longer needed. The wars had been fought and won. The lands had been discovered, the sea explored, the progress... progressed.

You had entered the age of overstimulation.

You lived now only to watch as the world settled into its end- for what could possibly be the next chapter of this exhausted earth? What was there left to do but repeat history until the last breath was taken?

And why would you stay to watch it?

And so you left the porch of your mountainside home and let your feet sink into soft grass. You looked around.

Same beautiful sky.

Same expanse of towering Douglas Firs and Cedar trees spread around you.

Same breathtaking sunrise peaking the horizon, its rays just now filtering through branches and spilling onto the expanse of hemlock that grew here in excess.

God you were so fucking bored.

Meditation was probably the only route left to you now. The only way you could ever move on with time, the only way to skip this terribly dull portion of your life and just get to the end.

The only way to finally, exhaustedly and with relief, meet your death.

You kept your front door open- knowing the cat needed a way to escape your home. You walked to the pasture gate and opened it as well, knowing that the horses and other livestock- too- would make their way in this world without you. The roan mare closest to you- one you’d not yet bothered to name- gave a quizzical look as you walked away from the open gate, and you smirked at her.

“Stay away from that damn cougar,” you tell her kindly.

Life could move without you.

The world could survive without you.

You choose a place you like just a little better than any other. A shaft of sun beats down on you here. A stream is somewhere near and you hear water as it dances over rock and winds down the mountain to connect to a river, that connects to the sea. Birds call out happily, blessed with short lives that are filled with song.

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe in. You close your eyes.  

…

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe in. You close your eyes.  

…

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe in. You close your eyes.  

…

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe in. You close your eyes.  

...

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe in. You close your eyes.  

**…**

**_*Repeat, 479 times*_ **

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe in. You close your eyes.  

… Wait.

... _What?_

You open your eyes, huge green orbs that have widened in panic. This has happened. This has happened _so_ many times.

You sit, willing your heart to calm, listening to the forest that surrounds you.

Something is wrong. So very, very wrong.

You stay there, unmoving, for days. The sun rises and sets. Fireflies blink around you, a moon peeks through the trees. In the distance coyotes howl and bark. On the second day it rains, and still you wait, like a statue immune to the climate that surrounds it. Another night, another dawn; watching, waiting, letting time run its course.

And then…

You sit and cross your legs. You rest your hands on your knees. You breathe- **STOP.**

You stand, heart racing, eyes wild, feet tripping over themselves.

It’s all there now, all raveled together in your mind the number of times you’ve done this.

Quick math; **Seven years**.

Seven. Fucking. Years. Of meditation.

And you haven’t gone anywhere. You’ve progressed not at all.

It is as though the universe screams _HA!_ at you.

You clutch your chest and take several deep and steadying breaths. The only reason this has gone on so long ( _seven fucking years!)_ is because of the meditation. It’s stalled your reaction to the time loop. Hell, the only reason you’ve even caught it is because the loop seems to begin as soon as you sit down…

Air rushes to your lungs, and you scowl.

Is this happening _because_ of you? Did the time loop begin because you’d tried to remove yourself from history? Because you’ve decided to keep out of the affairs of men- to alleviate your boredom by skipping to the end?

While you give yourself a self-deprecating snort, you realize that the thought certainly has merit. The repetition of time only began when you sat down to meditate, your intent to only open your eyes as the sun burnt out, or the last bomb went off, or as an asteroid collided, or however this small speck in the universe took its last breath. And with your removal from the timeline, what events might have changed? Were there fates that hung in _your_ balance?

You throw out your arms in frustration. “I have given you everything,” you say to the world around you- face stony with anger. “Let me leave you now!”

But there is no answer, as usual. The universe has never spoken to you- just dragged you along for the ride.

“ _Fuck_.”

You’re standing there in the sun shaft, brooding, wishing you could be like a normal damn human and go into death with age or by design, when you hear it.

You realize you have heard this many times in the last seven years, it’s a common sound. It’s the snapping of a twig. Still, it makes your head snap to attention.

Nothing has ever made less noise than you, almost gliding to see what had made the sound, wondering if the time loop, perhaps, is not some cosmic joke being played on you, but rather the result of some other anomaly. Probably not. Probably it’s just a deer…

But, no. Not a deer.

A child, small and lithe, moves quickly through the dense forest and up the mountainside. Its eyes are red-rimmed and its cheeks are wet, and on its face is a look of pure determination.

And all around it is power.

...Well. This is it then. Not some cosmic joke… but perhaps the universe’s very blunt way of saying it is not through with you, that there is more yet left for you to do.

The cat is still in the house when you enter it, grabbing a backpack and filling it haphazardly. You shut the door behind you tightly. You’ll be back. The cat will be fine. The horses too, for that matter, and you shut the paddock gate as well, the red mare twitching her head to the side at your odd antics.

Yes. You’ll return. Soon enough that the animals won’t have missed you. Soon enough and- possibly- with a brand new adventure laid out before you.

And you have an idea of where you’re about to go.

A spark of adrenaline rushes through you.

Finally. _Something new_.

* * *

 

They might have been ahead of you, but you waited for the child now, cloaked in shadow, watching the mouth of the cave intently- the spot that you correctly assume is the place the child rushes to.

The child that can manipulate time.

You scowl. You hate time manipulation. Mages that could do it had all died out, many prematurely and some even by your hand. You’d never been able to do it, and you were glad. Mistakes were meant to be made. Things were destined to progress. Going backward or forward was a damn fool’s errand, and you were always outside the timeline- there to put time back in order when some idiot tried to jump around.

It was a good thing too, because there had been that one time during the Bruce Campaign…

But reminiscing could wait, because the child approached, small gasps emanating from it as it leaned on the cave wall- trying to catch its breath. Tears seemed to come fresh now as slowed its progress, and the child ***you search briefly*** ah! -Frisk!- wiped furiously at their face with the sleeve of their sweater.

They aren’t looking as they enter the cave.

They trip.

They fall.

You follow.

* * *

 

You land on your feet. Easily.

Frisk, however, lays in a bed of golden flowers, out for the count at the time being. You sigh and kneel over them.

“You alright kid?”

They stir, an eye squinting up at you in question.

“Took a nasty fall,” you say evenly, letting yourself smile down at them.

They move slowly to a sitting position, and it takes only a moment for you to realize that they are signing to you.

***Who are you?***

“Meara,” you say, ignoring that the signing isn’t all that’s going on. You can hear them in your head, a child’s voice that follows the hand gestures and echoes in your mind, repeating with whatever power they have the same words they declare with their hands.

Instead, you copy their designed manned of communication. You both sign and speak; ***Are you able to stand, Frisk?***

They nod and rise, but then balk suddenly, realizing that the words they’ve just heard were not spoken aloud. Not only that, but you’ve said their name without it being given. They look to you with a panicked expression, retreating hastily and nearly tripping over their own feet.

You just smile at them.

The sheer force of the attempted reset is colossal, it presses down on you like the ocean.

You don’t stop smiling. You don’t stop looking at Frisk. You don’t even flinch. You allow yourself an amused scoff. The power that Frisk has directed into resetting slams into an invisible wall and refuses to budge.

Time stays in place.

“We just got here,” you say amiably. “Don’t you need to have a look around?”

The child looks at you, bemused and… yes, you know that look. Fearful.

They shake their head as though to clear cobwebs, and once again time tries to run back.

You smirk.

“No, no, Frisk. We aren’t doing _that_ anymore.”

There won’t be any more resets.

* * *

 

You stretch and look around, ignoring the constant barrage of power that presses around you- willing you to let your guard down and allow time to rewind.

This display of power might be impressive to someone who had seen less in the world.

To you it’s like the brush of the wind. It glides around you, it kisses your skin, but you are immovable.

“Knock it off,” you say eventually, rolling your shoulders. “You can’t go back anymore, this is the last timeline. Now, make it count and have a look around with me.”

They give you a glare of complete misery and try once more to reset.

This time there is nothing. No power, no press as time tries to rewind.

Nothing.

“That’s the last time, kid. Sorry, but as long as I’m alive you can’t do that anymore.”

And they couldn’t. The display of power had only needed to happen once, and with it you’d been able to identify it in the child's mind, at the core of their power, and suppress it. It was like putting a block on their mind, and it kept them from using their ability.

Frisk scrunched their nose at your words, and their face fell into a look of determination as they tried to reach for their power.

You watched as the realization hit them; you weren’t lying.

There was no longer anything to reach for. The power was… gone. Removed.

This really _was_ the last reset.

They looked as though they might begin to cry again.

“Come on,” you say, not unkindly, and you turn to the pillars that stand before you.

Frisk follows, grudgingly.

* * *

 

“Howdy! I’m Flowey! Flowey the-! … W-who… Who are _you_?”

You raise a brow.

“I’m Meara. Meara the human. This is Frisk.”

The stalemate is long, each party observing the other.

Flowey breaks the silence.

“Uh… well… You must be new to the Underground!”

You sigh. You need to progress this along. You’ve got a cat that still needs looked after, now that you’re plans of demise have been shot to shit.

“Not really, Asriel.”

The flower balks, and a little thrill runs through you. You love that, love taking people by surprise, love throwing them off kilter.

“I… I’m F-Flowey,” the little flower stammers. “…Who are you talki-”

“Oh stop that,” you interrupt. “I just went through this with Frisk. Assume I know most things and spare me. Now… I believe you were about to demonstrate something that you plan on trying to convince me are “Friendliness Pellets.””

The flower looks at you, open mouthed. A glance at Frisk shows the same.

You aren’t sure just how much these two know of the resets. They’re vaguely aware of them, at least. But something else is going on here.

You aren’t worried. You’ll sort it out. Hell, you’ve sorted weirder and worse. There was that time, with the HellGod during The Battle of Balance…

There was no time to reminisce, you have to remind yourself, turning to look at the little flower before you. He wasn’t always a flower though, and you couldn’t help but wonder how the Prince of Monsters had turned into a flower. Not only that, but with just a bit more inspection you could see the utter lack of soul that failed to reside in him.

 _What in hell has been going on down here,_ you think, bewildered.

No time to sit and ponder it though, the imposter before you has gathered power (Jesus, _a lot_ of power), and sent the white little “bullets” of magic hurling toward you and the kid.

You wave your hand, knocking them aside.

While Frisk and Flowey take a moment to gaze in surprise, you slip off your backpack and lay it at your feet- crouching down. Before you Flowey seems to break from his shock and begins to scream frustrated insults.

Inside the bag you find the Tupperware that holds several peanut butter sandwiches wrapped in napkins. You hand one of them to Frisk and let the rest sit wrapped in your pack- hoping they don’t squash. You keep the Tupperware for yourself and begin murmuring a few things down to it, ignoring the flowers continuous stream of profanity and letting more of the “friendliness pellets” hit uselessly against an errant shield you erect around yourself and the child.

“Does your mother know you talk like that?”  You finally ask, looking up from the container you hold, now imbued with spells.

Flowey sputters. “Y-y-y-YOU! **_W H A T  I S  W R O NG  W I T H  Y O U_ **?”

You smirk.

Like a snake you’ve suddenly struck. You grabbed the stem of the flower and yank, ripping it from the ground and shoving it into the container- lid shut tightly over it.

The flower looks aghast and disbelieving.

“W- _What_??! Let me OUT OF HERE!”

You laugh a little at his indignant expression.

“You’re adorable,” you say, lifting the container so that the Flower squashed on its side can make eye contact with you through the dish.

“Shut up!! Let me out!! _YOU IDIOT_ ! _IT SMELLS AWFUL IN HERE, LET ME OUT_!!”

You cackle a little. “Oh, it’s just peanut butter! Stop being so dramatic. Now. Hush.”

You tap the container, and just like that sound is cut off. The flower realizes immediately what's happened, and the container shakes in your hand as Asriel screams in muted rage.

You laugh again, and shove the temperamental prince into your bag.

“Adorable, just freaking adorable,” you goad down at him. And then you close your pack and slip it back onto your shoulders.

Frisk stares at you, sandwich held loosely in their hands.

***What are you going to do with him?***

You shrug. “I dunno. We’ll see, wont we?”

You gesture to the sandwich. “Eat that, Frisk. You’ll be fine. No one will hurt you.”

The kid looks dubious, as though they might think _you_ could be the one to hurt them.

You don’t correct them.

* * *

 

It’s a short journey before you are greeted by Toriel. The goat monster looks almost exactly the same as the last time you saw her.

 _“Jesus that’s fucking uncanny,”_ you think, considering all the years that have passed since the barrier was erected.

Though, you’ve not changed either.

She is open and kind and does not recognize you- which is less than surprising considering how long it’s been. You let her take Frisk’s hand and lead you to her home- explaining that the two of you fell down from the surface while on a hiking trip.

“Thank goodness you aren’t hurt!” she exclaims, and you smile and nod.

You tell her Frisk is your child, and a warning look cast to Frisk causes them to nod slowly in agreement.

Toriel gushes over them. Once through the catacombs that are filled with puzzles (puzzles, in all likelihood, placed in the ruins to keep the likes of you out), you enter Toriel’s home. She makes snail pie ( _oh my god monster food!)_ that you absolutely devourer, and which Frisk regards with typical childish distaste.  

You palm them another peanut butter sandwich under the table.

There is a moment that Toriel stares penetratingly at you across the kitchen table, and you feel your spine stiffen at her words.

“I feel… Oh, it’s so silly! But… I feel as though I have seen you before…”

You suck at the inside of one of your cheeks.

“Oh?”

“That red hair dear… Oh, it reminds me of… _something_.”

She’s probing too much. You can see the thoughts forming in her mind, the dots connecting, and you reach across the table and take her hand with a smile.

She’s asleep only a moment later.

Frisk jumps from the table, skidding away from you in alarm.

***What did you do?!***

“Calm down! I didn’t hurt her!! Look, look! She’s breathing, she’s just asleep!”

Frisk looks at the goat monster, small chest heaving. They seem to see her slumped form inhale and exhale in confirmation, and they look questioningly to you.

 ***What is going on?!!*** They ask, not bothering to sign, and you see them screw their face in concentration and know that they are hopelessly trying to reset time.

“Listen, we need to move along, and her figuring out who I am would have hindered that. I only put her to sleep. She’ll be just fine.”

Frisk looks unconvinced, and tears form around their eyes.

You reach out, wanting to place a comforting hand on their shoulder, but they jump back in fear.

You press your lips together.

“Look, I’ll leave her a note. Tell her to meet us at the barrier, tell her a bit of what’s going on, okay?”

They stand across from you, posture mimicking a frightened deer, before finally some stress ebbs from them and they give you a nod. You nod back, take a pad of paper and a pencil from your pack and write Toriel a note.

_Your Highness,_

_Sorry to eat and run, but Frisk and I had to get to the barrier. You have been lovely, just as I always remembered you. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. In fact, please head to the barrier and let Frisk know you are alright! I think they believe I killed you, ha!_

_-Meara_

You let Frisk read the note. They knit their brows.

***How does she know you?***

You shrug. “Unimportant.”

They glare at you.

 ***Why are you a** **_smartass_ ** **?***

“Hey!” you scold. “What are you, ten?! Don’t use that kind of language. Jesus.”

***I’m Eleven.***

“Uh-huh, whatever. Listen, I’m not going to hurt you unless you start killing people, alright? And I’m not going to kill anyone unless they deserve it, so calm down. Let’s just try and trust each other for a bit, yeah?”

You know they won’t, but the words need to be said. Actions are what will prove different to them, and the prospect of something new and exciting happening to you is much more appealing than wreaking death and destruction for the only purpose of vendettas and hostility that were never yours.

Frisk slowly relaxes and takes your proffered hand, untrusting eyes softening just a bit as they look up at you. They pat Toriel’s arm and walk with you to the door that will lead you from the Ruins.

It’s as you hold their hand that you realize they aren’t the only ones taking up their headspace.

* * *

 

Sans is more alert now than he’s been in a very long time. He felt the timeline pushing to go back numerous times, Frisk’s attempts at resetting, and this is the first and only time he’s ever felt it fail.

Time is refusing to reset.

Still, Sans denies himself to hope, going so far as to push it away when it tries to crawl into his chest.

“ain’t gettin’ my hopes up,” he breaths quietly, leaning against a tall tree and watching the door he knows Frisk will appear out of.

He’s done it before, tricked himself into thinking, _hoping_ , that this time was the last. This time, the loop would end, the cycle would break, and he would be free. But Sans had lived and died. He had laughed and cried and killed. He’d even got to see the sun on a few occasions. But, ultimately, he ended up back here, back at the beginning.

There had been a time when he had tried to stop the loop, had poured weeks and months- maybe even years- into researching the anomaly, desperate to interrupt the resets. But they had never worked, and he’d realized that the more time he put into trying to find an answer, the farther he seemed to get from one.

Hope had ripped him apart more succinctly than any knife, and it didn’t live inside him anymore.

But still, he’s here waiting much earlier than he needs to, wanting to find out _why_ the resets haven’t worked. He knows that Frisk never leaves the Ruins this early, but…

… Frisk has also never failed at resetting time, either. And _something_ , a feeling in his bones, has compelled him to wait here- to investigate this new development.

Sans can’t help the wondering that has overtaken him now, the burning desire to see just what is going on, to see if anything is different. The waiting is making him uncomfortable, his bones seeming to crawl with anxiety, his mind racing with _what ifs._

The door opens, and with a sense of dread Sans holds his breath.

And there is it, the disappointment he’s grown used to.

Just Frisk. Maybe a bit early, but there they are.

The breath he’s held whooshes from his mouth in frustration. How? How can he keep doing this? He wonders when his mind will finally break, when the threads of sanity will snap. It helps, probably, that he can’t remember every detail… But he knows he’s been doing this for a long time.

“which frisk am i gettin’ this time,” he murmurs, ignoring the brief pressing of panic that tries to push down on him, threatening to overtake him completely.

But Frisk is not alone.

Sans does a double take when he sees you. You were busy jamming a stick in the door frame to keep it propped open, Frisk waiting patiently for you in the snow, their eyes cautious as they watch you.

You stand straight and take the child's hand, giving what San’s thinks is a small, reassuring smile. You’re sturdy looking- vaguely muscled and curved, and long curled hair that looks like fire hangs loose down to your waist. Not red like Undyne’s, but almost orange- thick and full and wild.

Sans can’t breathe. The panic has overwhelmed him. Confusion has settled in. A second person… _a second person_. There is a second person that walks now with Frisk- another human embroiled in this loop. Surely this is all a lie, an apparition. You being here; it doesn’t _mean_ _anything_. This isn’t an indication of change. You’ll come and go, time will reset, and things will go back to how they were. This… this is just a glitch- an anomaly in an anomaly! And the failed resets? Just a trick. Just a way to build false hope…

His thoughts are muddled and distressing, coming and going in rapid fire succession. Anxiety overpowers him for long moments and makes his vision go black. He comes too as he takes several unintentional steps towards you and the kid, shaking his head and trying, _trying_ , to gather himself. He feels like he’s unraveling.

You’re humming something to Frisk, something pretty that echoes around you, and the kid is looking up at you, clutching your hand and suddenly smiling. San’s follows unseen in the tree line, watching, his thoughts stunted as this impossible situation unfolds. You laugh at Frisk and sing a few of the lyrics down to them.

“Let's go in the garden, You’ll find something waiting. Right there here you left it, lying upside down.”

Frisks smile is spread wide now, eyes dancing as they look excitedly up at you, and San’s disjointed mind gathers that they know this song.

He watches as you laugh and continue.

“When you finally find it, You’ll see how it’s faded. The underside it lighter, When you turn it around.”

You stop, brows raised, but Frisk bumps your hip with their shoulder, urging you on, and Sans hears another amused laugh before you continue, “Everything stays, Right where you left it. Everything stays, But it still changes. Ever so slightly. Daily and nightly. In little ways, When everything stays.”

How can this be happening? How, after all this time, has someone new shown up in this timeline? He’s definitely hallucinating, he decides. How can he _not_ be? Some red haired human has shown up with Frisk out of nowhere, and now they’re singing sweetly down to the child, swinging their arms and even twirling them around. He can feel the panic rising in him like a living thing, and he clutches his sternum- fingers digging into his ribs.

The song seems to repeat itself again, but you’ve stopped mid-verse. Hell, you’ve stopped walking, too, letting go of Frisk’s hand and pushing hair from your face. Sans freezes. You’ve looked over to where he stands, eyes narrowed at the space between two impossibly tall pines that he hides between.

“I’m no hallucination,” you call. “Now come out and greet a new friend.”

* * *

 

You see the skeleton emerge uncertainly from the trees (certainly he’s no human skeleton, though) and smile at him.

“Ha! You must be Gasters son!”

He startles a bit at that. You’ve scared him- and not the way you like to scare people, either. He’s sweating, looking at you with an expression of disbelief and…

You frown.

“You’re about to have a panic attack,” you say, quickly going to him and taking him by the shoulder. “Sit.”

You push him into a sitting position in the snow, not surprised that he goes down without resistance, knees lifting and head settling between them.

He’s rambling.

“y-you. why are you here? _how_ are you here? are you the reason the kid can’t reset? h-how? **_how?_ ** ”

You’re kneeling next to him, rubbing his shoulders the way you might a child who had just woken from a nightmare.

“You gotta breath, man. I can fix this for you, but I need you to calm down.”

“how? _how?!_ i don’t understand. i-i-i don’t… i don’t, i don’t, i don’t, i don’t, i don-”

You make shushing noises, reminding him to breathe. It takes him a minute, deep measured breaths coming from where his head rests, his hands clutching the back of his skull. You think he might be crying when he says; “you aren’t real. i know you _aren’t real_.”

“Let me see what’s been happening,” you tell him, and before he can protest you’ve taken his hand.

It’s like a wave, thoughts crashing down on you and filling your mind. You sift through them, taking and leaving what you will, the skeleton giving you his memories without resistance- almost pushing them towards you, as though he hopes you might keep them for yourself.

You push past the memories of life before the resets without much examination- taking in only that Gaster has done something more than foolish- the skeleton now little more than a forgotten memory that refuses to surface.

Once you reach Sans more recent memories you have to fight not to recoil.

He’s hanging together by mere threads. You see the loop, the seven years of repeated hell. You see the anger and tears, the laughter and worry. You see everything, even what he cannot- unlocking the subconscious so that all the timelines are present and accounted for, not a single detail forgotten. And this skeleton- Sans- he sees it now too. The appearance of the child, and the happy times he’s had with them. The resets that show the other part of Frisk- the one you know is intruding on their soul- and the death and havoc they cause to the underground. You see so many other monsters, but none more than his brother, Papyrus, who sometimes turns to dust that blows into the wind and gets lost in the falling snow when The Other kills him. You see Frisk’s death and his own a hundred times over, feel his pain at killing a child, feeling his desire to die and stay dead each time the knife cuts over him. You see his research, and even the moment when he realizes that he’s learned nothing, that he is clueless on how to stop the resets. That there is no way to save them…

You see when his hope dies, and he surrenders to the inevitability of living in this hell, until he breaks.

And he _is_ broken. More than broken. But not irreparable. A shattered vase might be put back together- though you’ll always be able to see the cracks.

You heal. You repair. You hold his hand tightly and place the other hand on his head. Your eyes are closed as you weave together his memories. You let him age seven years. You give him peace that calms the panic. You let him remember this hell- but you organize it, you categorize it.

It’s like forcing spring on an eternal winter.

When you’re done, Sans buckles and collapses, the snow pillowing his short fall. His eyes are dark, his breathing shallow and even, and for now you let him rest in unconsciousness. You stand and look at Frisk.

They seem nervous, skittish.

“What do you remember about the resets, Frisk?”

***Not… Not much.***

You purse your lips.

“What about you, Chara?”

* * *

 

Sans comes too with a slowness that almost seems unnatural. His mind is in a twilight, words being spoken around him muffled and sounding as though they are said from miles away. He can feel cold snow around him- has clutched some in his hands and hears it crunch between his fingers- sounding so much louder than the voices that speak around him.

 _it’s alright though,_ he thinks. _it’s all alright… i feel… i feel better. different. i can… i can remember._

He could. He remembered everything. Not in some foggy jumble, either. He remembered with clarity, able now to recall events that had once been just out of his grasp. He’d been here so long, had endured so much, and yet now the memories brought him little pain. It was like something was keeping him from feeling the weight of it all. He could remember the pain he’d felt, the panic that had coursed through him, but now it was all a memory. The fear of the past was gone. _How…?_

Voices came more clearly now. One rang sharp and seemed to slam him into remembrance. His eyes came into focus, his head lifted.

You stood next to his body, red hair pouring over you like a curtain. Now that he could see you more closely, he saw green eyes and pale freckled skin. He remembered seeing you, remembered your hands on his shoulder, your calm, assured words. He remembered you taking his hand and…

And…

You’d fixed him. It had been _you…_

Now though, you looked… angry. Wind looked as though it encased you, lifting your hair so that it whipped wildly around you. You looked straight ahead, lips thinned and eyes narrowed, and San’s realized that the voices speaking were your own and…

Frisk.

He looks at the child but… this isn’t his friend- this isn’t Frisk. This isn’t the sweet kid that comes and saves the underground.

This is his enemy.

Red eyes glare at you, and Sans quickly gets to his feet.

“watch out!” he tells you, coming to stand close by your side. “the kid… the kid changes. they aren’t the same…”

He trails off when you look at him. You know this. He _knows_ you know this. Anything he could say to you is irrelevant because… because he’s already told you. When you’d fixed him, you had seen everything. All his memories, all his experiences, they’d been yours to have, yours to examine and study.

He feels the blush on his cheeks. Memories were personal things, but he’d nearly forced them on you once you’d been in his mind. He’d wanted so badly to be rid of them. And you had taken them, those nightmare memories, and you had let him keep them. You had turned the loop into a long strand of time, had organized it so that- instead of half remembered snatches of a constantly repeated hell-there was a semblance of order. You had cleared his mind and pieced together a shattered soul.

He doesn’t know who you are, where the hell you came from, or how you have the power you do. But… you saved him- at least for the time being. And you… _you._ You are the only way to have a future, the only way that there might be a shot at ending the resets.

So he says, shoving nervous hands in his pockets as you turn back to the angry child that looks ready to battle, the only thing he can think that might matter to you.

“they won’t stop. if you die, the kid will kill us all.”

You look at him then, eyes softening, lips pulling into a half smile.

“please don’t die,” he rasps.

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Moving Right Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re going to be so easy to beat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone wanna guess how Meara knows the Underground before it is revealed? I mean, it's revealed in this chapter so... honor system in the comments. I think it's probably pretty obvious... but hey.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking- oh, this will be interesting. She thinks I’m just a kid. She thinks I’ll be easy to beat. I’ll kill her, reset time, and everything can go back to the way it was. Well, you’re wrong. You’re wrong about everything- except the part about being easy to beat.”

You smile a little.

“You’re going to be _so_ easy to beat.”

You feel the skeleton- Sans- twitch at your side, but you keep your eyes trained on the child before you. Their thoughts are almost hurled at you they are so loud- even though you know they are meant to be private. Frisk is scared, little legs shaking, but Chara is furious, and you can see their shadowy silhouette outlined over Frisks own body. They’re arguing with each other, Frisk begging Chara not to hurt anyone, and Chara snarling that it was too late, that you were here to hurt them.

“It’s never too late,” you interject. “It might be seven years of hell you’ve inflicted on these people, but this is a new timeline, and you haven’t hurt anyone.”

Across from you Frisks lip quivers.

And then…

Your soul is suddenly floating in front of you- Chara’s doing- as they prepare to fight. You hear the skeleton inhale sharply, his figure seeming to inch nearer to you, and you get the feeling of power collecting around him as he prepares himself for combat. It’s vaguely touching that he thinks you need help, but entirely unnecessary.

You look at the soul that floats before your chest. It’s been quite a long time since you’ve examined it properly, but it’s not changed. You’d been born with an Orange soul, and so the color stood out more than the rest, bright and nearly distracting. Nearly. But as you’d aged more colors had developed- merging and bleeding with the orange like watercolors on canvas. Now it was like a sunset- yellow and purple hues around the edges, a small tinge of red that faded into a vibrant pink that blossomed in the middle like a rose. And curled twice around it- like a vine or perhaps a snake- was a thin streak of black.

Frisk gaped at you.

* **B-black?** *

“Just a little!” you say defensively. You _like_ your soul. You _like_ the black, and you _like_ the reasons you have it. Regrets are for the weak.

Sighing, you step nearer to the child, who skids automatically back in panic. You chew on the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. Striking them down seems… excessive. And Frisk seems alright to you- if not misguided. You wonder just how tight a hold Chara has on the child, and what sort of consequences that may have. It could be that, with the extraction of this other soul, there might be terrible pain for Frisk. Or even, if Chara has melded into them too severely, death. One thing is for sure though, you need to speak to each of them, and not as one small child, but as two separate individuals. It was too hard, telling them apart, with both voices rattling around in the same mind.

Decided, you wave a hand.

* * *

 

Sans is still reeling over the colors of you soul when, without warning, it’s gone- encased securely in your chest. But its departure didn’t lessen his memory of the colorful heart, it is like it has been burned into his mind. It reminded him of a kaleidoscope he’d once found at the dump, all warm colors that intermingled as one- only this display had been brighter- your soul more vibrant than anything he’d ever seen- brighter even than the sunrise he could now recall, with his healed mind. So bright he hadn’t even noticed the black filigree that wrapped tightly around the heart until Frisk had mentioned it. But he doesn’t have time to think about the implications of this (hell, he isn’t even sure what it means to have a pink soul- let alone a black one), because you’ve waved your hand and, to his shock, someone new stands in the snow beside Frisk.

Red eyes. Brown hair. And not at all solid looking.

“Hello Chara,” you are saying with a smile, and Sans- feeling in his bones that it is this child, _this abomination_ , that has cut him down so many times, slowly takes one hand from the pocket of his coat.

The motion draws the notice of the wraithlike creature, and eyes cut to him.

“Comedian,” they sneer in greeting.

“hey kid. long time no see.”

He feels their arrival, the Gaster Blasters that have flanked either side of him, phasing into visibility from nothingness to hover ominously by his shoulders.

Frisk squeaks in fear, stumbling back- feet tangling on a branch. They totter a moment and land in a sitting position in the snow, tears forming in the corners of their eyes.

* **Please don’t fight!** *

Sans smirks at this.

“seven years, and _now_ you wanna tell her not to fight me?” He snorts, feeling anger curl around him like a living thing. “it’s time to end this.”

* **I was always telling her! Every time, every single time! I begged her not to fight you!** *

He grit his teeth, but whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat when you begin to speak.

“Frisk is telling the truth… but this is their fault, too.”

You’re looking at the two children with narrowed eyes, drawing nearer to them with slow, lithe steps.

“I thought… I thought it was Chara resetting time, once I realized they were there with you… but it’s _you_ Frisk. You’re the one who goes back. Even in the good endings, when you break the barrier…”

You’ve come so close to the pair now that it would be impossible for Sans to set off his blasters and not hit you. You’re crouching, eye level with Frisk, ignoring the shadow of Chara that stands beside you.

“Why do you reset?” you ask softly, and you take Frisk’s hand.

There is silence then, wind all that can be heard as it whips around the two figures in the snow. Sans sees you close your eyes, sees Frisk do the same, tears leaking onto their cheeks and a shaking tremor that settles in their hands.

A minute goes by, and another. Sans has worked out very little of this situation, but he does know that, seemingly, you can read memories and thoughts with the touch of a hand. That much he’d be willing to grant as very nearly a fact. So while you read Frisk, he watches Chara, eyes sockets dim. She looks back at him, fury on her face as she glares, arms crossed, as though she might think this is all his fault.

When you pull back, Sans hears you sigh. He watches you wipe tears from Frisk’s face and press lips to their forehead.

“Everything will be alright,” you say, and then you’re walking back to Sans, who feels nerves build up in him when you stand before him, hands held out as if he should take them. Involuntarily he shrinks back, feeling an anxious sweat break on his brow.

“I need you to see what’s been happening,” you tell him, making no move to force contact, but also not lowering your extended hands.

Sans hesitates only a moment before, with a steeled look of determination, he places his two hands into your own.

It all goes black for a moment- and then color explodes around him. He hears crying, an unknown voice screaming, and suddenly it comes into focus.

 _“You stupid freak! What the hell is wrong with you?! He left and it’s your fault._ **_YOUR FAULT!_ ** _”_

He sees Frisk, crouched on the floor of an untidy looking living room, hands covering their head, as a woman hurls insults at them. She’s tall and thin, with brown hair that matches Frisk’s, and San’s knows this is their mother. He looks around the home. It might have once been nice, but it looks as though it has had very little upkeep. Stains mark the carpet, and a sickly looking orange cat hides in the corner. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, and Sans is mildly astonished that he’s able to smell it- mixed with the sharp stench of cat urine and a lingering odor of something else he doesn’t know, but that you identify for him as stale beer from the cans on the table. Sans realizes that it is like you are there with him, and if he thinks about it, he can feel your hands in his.

 _“Pay attention,”_ you seem to whisper in his mind.

The barrage of foul language continues, culminating when the woman reaches down and pulls Frisk to their feet, gripping their arms and shaking them violently, screaming “Your fault!” so that spit flecks land on their face. Sans flinches when she slaps Frisk. It’s a hard and resounding crack.

The image blurs and shifts, and when it clears Frisk is running. Running up the mountain, falling down into the ruins.

Frisk is calling Toriel _mom_.

Frisk is making friends. They have a purpose, and they are wanted.

For the most part- they are safe.

And then, as the sun rises for the first time after the barrier breaks, as the monsters marvel over this beautiful orb that had been denied to them for so long, Frisk looks down into a small town. A town they were raised in. A town where their mother lives- their _real_ mother.

Sans can feel the kid panic then, can feel the way their hand tightens around Tori’s paw. They won’t be able to stay with her. They’ll be forced to go back to their mother, to their home, and they won’t be able to see any of the new friends they have made. And their mother? Their _real_  mother? She’ll be angry, she’ll be furious. She’ll…

_Go back!_

Time resets. Again, and again. But the more it does, the more another voice becomes apparent- growing stronger with each reset.

It’s Chara, who is annoyed. Who hates the resets. Who wants to find Frisk’s real mother and harm her. Who wants Frisk to stop the loop.

 _Begs_ Frisk to stop the loop.

 _“This is hell!”_ they wail to Frisk. _“Please! Stop!”_

Sans sees the moment that the two begin to meld. Chara takes over, she lashes out. “I’ll kill them if you don’t stop this!”

And she does. She ignores Frisk’s pleas to stop. Ignores Frisk’s insistence that no one has to be hurt.

“You won’t listen to me! Just listen to me! I can keep you safe!” Chara yells.

But Frisk doesn’t believe her, and so the hell begins. The resets never stop. When Frisk is in charge they ignore Chara, they make friends and solve problems. And then they reset to the beginning- not bothering now to even break the barrier. And then Chara will take over, killing all that cross her path, raging all the while that they will do this until the timeline ends, that they always hated it all, that nothing matters in the end. And then the darkness that comes once everyone has died, and Frisk’s sobs as they reset once more, and start again the cycle that had been repeated too many times to count.

When Sans comes too, he’s crying.

* * *

 

You are disappointed at being wrong. You’d thought Chara was some evil specter, and that would have been easier- truth be told.

Instead, Chara has turned out to be a voice of reason- albeit an angry voice.

You let San’s compose himself and turn to look at the shadow of the child. Toriel and Asgore’s child. Asriel’s adopted human sister.

You grimace and approach.

“Still want to fight?” you ask, hands on hips.

Chara grimaces. “I saw what you saw… You know now, what’s really been going on. I don’t think you’re going to hurt them.” They gesture down to Frisk, who still sits in the snow, head buried in their hands.

You shake your head. “I won’t hurt them.”

“And… and the resets are really over, aren’t they?”

You nod.

There is a beat of silence between the two of you then, and Chara shuffles awkwardly.

She knows.

“You aren’t even supposed to be here,” you tell her, not bothering to mask the pity that’s plastered on your face.

Chara shrugs. “My soul was in the flowers Frisk landed in, in the Ruins. Whatever power Frisk has… it pulled me in. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

You nod again. “They’ve got to learn how to control all these gifts they seem to have.”

“You should take them away,” Chara supplies quickly. “Like how you did with the resets. Frisk is just a kid, they shouldn’t have that kind of power.”

“Maybe,” You shrug noncommittally, then sigh.

This sucks.

“Ready to go back to sleep?”

Chara nods.

“You’ll… You’ll take care of them right? You’ll let Frisk stay with mom? You won’t let that other lady hurt them? I’ve seen what she’s done. … I … I wouldn’t want to go back to that either.”

You hold out your hand to the child, eyes serious when you respond; “Anyone who wants to hurt Frisk will have to go through me now.”

A smile that might be regarded as a little scary spreads on Chara’s face, a happiness at the thought filling their eyes.

“Good,” she says.

And then she takes your hand.

A moment later, there is only dust.

* * *

 

In the aftermath of Chara’s permanent departure, it takes many long minutes to calm Frisk. The memories of the loop have all rushed into their mind now, and it has nearly overwhelmed them- exhaustion pulling them under like a current. Not only that, Chara has gone, and the feeling of it is akin to ripping out a part of their own soul. You hold them as they sob, sat in the snow and ignoring the cold that is settling in around you.

* **I can’t feel her anymore! She’s gone!** *

You tuck them deeper under your chin. “She couldn’t stay,” you tell them, rocking back and forth. “She isn’t meant for the living.”

* **But why?! I didn’t mind her! She could have stayed with me!** *

You make eye contact with Sans, who has settled cross-legged in the snow across from you, a hand placed comfortingly in Frisk’s, worry etched on his face.

“She was never supposed to be here,” you explain slowly. “When you fell… She attached to you. The longer she was there, the stronger she became. But it isn’t good for living things to have the dead attached to them like that. It hurts us, in the long run. And Chara, she never _wanted_ to come back.”

You were trying to leave out that it was Frisk’s fault. That their power had fused her to them. That Chara had been forced into consciousness against her will.

But Frisk seemed to have gathered as much.

* **It was me! I’m the one who did this!** *

You press your lips together and look again at Sans.

He is no help. He looks lost.

“Listen,” you begin. “I was like you once. I had all this power, and no one to show me how to use it. I can read minds if I want. I can kill with a thought and a little bit of power. I can manipulate water. I can… well, I can do a lot of things. But a long time ago I didn’t know how to do… well, anything! I… I almost drown a whole town. I had a million voices in my head, all talking at once. I killed a man whose thoughts I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

Frisk has stopped crying in your arms, and you look down to see a frightened expression cross their face. You smile a little.

“He deserved it, trust me.”

This does not comfort them, but your smile causes them to relax a little.

“The point is,” you continue. “That all these mishaps, they happen! They happen to every mage who has ever walked the face of this planet. And the bigger the mistakes, the more powerful you’ll end up being.”

* **So I’m… I’m bad?** *

You shake your head. “No! This… Frisk, this is _nothing_ . This time loop… I once met a girl who tried to travel back to the start of the Second World War, to advise Hitler. I met a Death Speaker who let countless Demons into their soul and devoured children. _You_ are as far from bad as a person can be. You’ve displaced some things, but it’s all going to work out. Look at Sans, he’s fine now! Aren’t you Sans?!”

The skeleton looks dubious, a grimace crossing his face, but when he meets Frisk’s watery eyes he nods and forces a smile.

“s’fine, kiddo. all fixed up now. no harm done.”

You see him squeeze Frisk’s hand, and you copy the motion by holding Frisk even tighter. Frisk has dissolved into hiccups, and you pat their back and hum a little, trying to remember the last time you comforted a child.

“Every mistake, every bad decision, it’s all going to be fixed. And Frisk, I will never let that woman hurt you again.”

You don’t need to elaborate, they know exactly who you are talking about. They bury their head in the crook of your shoulder and say; ***She’ll never let me stay with Toriel.***

You expel a short little laugh at that. “Frisk, I will show her what true hell is, if she tries to take you.”

They pull away a bit then, to look up at you, eyes red rimmed and nose running. They must see the truth of your words in your eyes, because after a moment they nod.

 ***What about everyone else?*** They ask. ***What about Flowey?***

 _Shit._ The fucking flower.

“Eh… I think we can let him stay in the tupperware for a bit. And as for the rest… Really, they need to remember some of what’s happened.”

You purse your lips to the side and look at Sans. “They need to remember meeting Frisk, becoming friends with them. It’s important that they don’t all want them dead.”

The skeleton nods, releasing Frisk’s hand and standing. You stand too, holding Frisk like you might an infant, looking down at the stocky skeleton.

“if we go to the palace, asgore will try to kill them.”

At this, you grimace. “Asgore,” you snarl. “I’d almost forgot about him.”

A brow bone raises, and San’s cocks his head. “not a fan?” He asks.

You make a face of disgust. “Not a fan of murdering children, no.”

You’ve been alive a lot longer than Asgore, and you’ve done a lot more fighting too. And never once had you killed a child.

“Should have killed him when I had the chance,” you murmur under you breath, but Sans heard, because now both brows are raised. You might wonder how he manipulated his face into this array of expressions- what with being a skeleton- but magic was the only answer, so you didn’t stall on it. Besides, you can recall Gaster, and he too was a man full of expression and finite mannerisms

“Alright,” you begin, shifting Frisk so that they are more secure in your arms. “I think I know how to do this. I’ll put the first loop into everyone's mind. Let them believe _that’s_ how it’s all happened. That way, they’ve still built a relationship with the kid.”

Sans incredulous expression has not changed. “uh... you can do that?”

***Can you reset time too? Like me?***

You shake your head down at Frisk. “No, but I can manipulate minds. A blink of an eye, and everyone will believe a couple of days have passed, and that you have become a friend to all monsters.”

***What about fighting Flowey? What about Asriel?***

“We’ll stop just before that point. I think I’ll keep Asgore and Toriel out of the loop, tell them a bit of what’s happened.”

You look at Sans. “And you, too.” You add. “Obviously you know what’s actually happened. ...Unless you want me to erase it? I can make it so you don’t remember the bad stuff.”

His eyes widen a bit at that, and he shakes his head. “i don’t want to forget anything.”

His voice is fervent, and you nod. You figured as much.

“I’m Meara, by the way.”

* * *

 

Sans is surprised to find that the trek to the palace is uneventful. You walk just ahead of him with Frisk still cradled in your arms, clearly knowing the way, and any puzzles set are disabled with an upwards jerk of your head. Not only that, but people pass your odd little group without a word, without a look. You are like a fish cutting through a sea of monsters, and you all go completely unnoticed.

Finally Sans can’t help but ask, “can… can they not see us?”

You look back at him and smile. “Sort of… More like, they don’t notice. I’m just directing their attention elsewhere.”

Sans thinks about asking you to explain, but settles for the answer you’ve given with a roll of his shoulders and a nod. Instead he says, “you’ve been here before.”

It is not a question.

He wonders if you’ll even answer him, but you do after a moment, saying; “It’s been a long time, and most of the directions are gathered from your’s and Frisk’s memories… but yeah, I’ve been here.”

You’re all in Hotland now, and Frisk has fallen asleep. Sans keeps pace with you in silence, mulling over his next question.

“so you’re… you’re really…”

“Old?”

He can feel the blush that rises on his cheeks.

“uh... yeah.”

You laugh a little, and he cuts a quick glance upward, feeling a little relieved that you aren’t angry.

“Your dad used to blush like that,” you say, smirking down at him. “It was more of a green tint though. Different magic.”

Sans feels the heat increase on his cheeks, and you smile wider.

“uh... i can… i can remember him a little. now that you… ya know… fixed me.”

You adjust Frisk again. “Yeah, I saw what he did. Tried to break the barrier. Erased himself instead.”

Sans nods and presses his hands deeper into his pockets.

“how did you know him?”

You’re silent so long that he thinks you won’t answer him. But as you step onto the elevator that will take you to New Home, you reply; “We met a few times, during the war. I was there when he learned about your mother…”

Sans whips his head to look at you.

“my… mother?”

“She nearly died… It took weeks to heal her, and even then she could hardly use her magic.”

Sans stands rooted to the spot, nearly having the elevator doors close on him when you exit and he stays. But he shoves them open and catches up to you, trying to quiet his racing mind.  

“i don’t remember her,” he finally says, unable to think of what else to say.

“She could only have gotten weaker. If she had you and your brother… I’m sure that took a lot of energy.”

You stop and look down at him. “Did Gaster never talk about her?”

Sans shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak.

“That’s a shame. He really loved her.”

More silence, and Sans can’t even begin to organize his thoughts as he follows you once more though the underground. You’ve both entered the Hall of Judgement when he finally says; “how…? how do you know all this?”

You stop again, red hair seeming to glow in the yellow light. “I told you, I was there.”

But here, in this place, he can see that you’re hedging the question.

“you can’t lie to me here,” he remarks, and he laughs a little at the face you make down at him.

“It’s not a lie.”

“it isn’t a whole truth, either. did you fight?”

“No. I refused.”

“so what aren’t you telling me?”

You’re pressing your lips together, and Sans thinks this must be a habit of yours, he’s seen you do it so often.

“how do you plan on breaking the barrier?”

You rotate your jaw a little in annoyance, and Sans grins.

“You know, I like you Sans. I’d hate to ruin this rapport.”

He just stares, unrelenting. He knows you’ll tell him. He can feel it.

“i’ll try to stay open-minded,” he assures.

Really, it can’t be that bad.

You huff and roll your eyes.

“I _made_ the barrier,” you finally say, and then turn and leave him once more rooted to the spot.

…

**oh.**

**_oh._   **

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you guys are the fucking tits. I mean, holy shit. I'm going to start replying to comments. I felt like I wanted to keep the count accurate but, fuck it. I love you all so much. *punches fist* I'm pumped! You guys rock! Now tell me what you think babes!
> 
> ALSO- I know at the end there they progress pretty quickly through the Underground. Suspiciously fast. And they skip over entire areas. It's on purpose. Probably something that will get mentioned next chapter.


	3. The Past and the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my god, get me out of this fucking room”

_“I made the barrier.”_

 

Well, Shit. This had not gone exactly as planned…

 

You liked the skeleton, especially knowing he was Gasters son. It was a nice link to your past, and all the memories you’d read of Sans and his character from Frisk had… well, they had _impressed_ you. This wasn’t exactly how you’d wanted him to find out about… things.

 

_Nice going Meara,_ you silently chastise.

 

Although, if you stop and really think about it, there was no way he wasn’t going to find out about it. And really, better from you than from, say, Asgore.

 

You screw up your face at the thought. It’s as you reach the door to the next hall that you realize Sans is not keeping pace with you any longer. You double back, seeing he is still rooted to the spot, and stand before him once more in the yellow light. He faces you, jaw a bit slack. You purse your lips and try not to squirm. It’s this place. It’s filled with yellow magic, _his_ yellow magic, and here it is impossible to hide, impossible not to be honest and direct.

 

“you... made…”

 

You nod. “I made it. Well, I helped make it. But I’m the only one left so… I’m the only one around to blame.”

 

You give a little uncomfortable laugh, but the tension does not break. He just stares, the lights of his eyes dim.

 

Sighing, you set Frisk down by a pillar, taking off your jacket and lying it over them. They don’t even stir, their slumber deep and uninterrupted.

 

Walking back to Sans, you ignore the way his eyes have become distrustful. You stand in front of him and proffer your hands. He raises brow bones, even takes a step away from you, and you give him a look of frustration- ignoring the little stab of hurt that pangs through you.

 

“Come on,” you coax. “Let me show you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sans can’t help but be curious. And what’s more, _you_ are the reason he’s standing here, whole and well. You have fixed him, mended his broken mind, and he wants with every fiber of his being to trust you. Not trusting you, after all you’ve done, it seems… _unnatural_. The idea of it is immediately rejected- willpower alone all that convinces him to be less trusting of the human that stands before him. He _shouldn’t_ trust you. You are a stranger, after all, and you have power that clearly surpasses any he has ever seen.

 

But still…

 

With just a moment's hesitation he once again takes your hands, desperate to continue believing in you.

 

He catches your smile of victory before it all goes black…

 

When the arraying burst of color that follows clears and sharpens, Sans is looking at his father.

 

It wasn’t something he was prepared for, and it makes him feel stiff with the suddenness of shock.

 

Gaster sits by the hearth of a fireplace, elbows resting on the arms of a rocking chair, long fingers laced together in front of him. Sans had forgotten what he looked like, forgotten even what he sounded like. But as he stares at the man now, it all comes rushing back to him. His height ( _pap’s gets that from him_ ), his facial features. Even the small smirk that seems perpetually glued onto his face.

 

_dad..._

 

He gets another shock when his eyes trail to the seat across from Gaster.

 

Red hair.

 

Green eyes.

 

_she wasn’t lying._

 

You face Gaster, legs crossed, sipping tea and wearing a heavy looking blue dress that Sans imagines is appropriate for the time period. But your hair ruins whatever conformity you might be striving for- it’s loose and wild, bright as ever and nearly dancing with the light of the fire.

“There is nothing you can do?” Gaster is asking, and you shake your head and frown.

 

“I’m not the head mage,” you are replying, but your voice is different- completely transformed from the way it is now. “I couldn’t make them do a thing, not without challenging James. And I’ve no interest in that, to be sure.”

 

Sans has to pay close attention, your accent is thick and lilting, and it is unlike any he’s ever heard (for instance, you’ve pronounced thing; ting).

Gaster heaves a sudden angry sigh and leans forward in his chair.  

 

“We were here first!” he proclaims, a long finger jabbing into his leg to punctuate his point. “We’ve lived peacefully with the natives for centuries, it should be that way now!”

 

“Ah, but you have never met the likes of these men. They are ruthless, and they fear magic. They will take this land, they will conquer the west. You know that they already talk of tucking you away, just as they are with the natives.”

 

His father makes an angry noise, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

 

“How do they abide _you_ then? You and all the other mages?”

 

“Oh just barely. We don’t look like your sort, do we? Our bones are all proper like, on the inside. And there’s no beastie goat kings running about, nor are there mold sponges-”

 

“Moldsmal’s.”

 

“Aye, those. I look just as I’m supposed ta’. An immigrant, to be sure, but a human.”

 

“That,” Gaster intones acidly, “is beyond foolish, Meara.”

 

You laugh a little. “And so it is. But you wait. We mages, we’re the next to go.”

 

Sans watches his father cradle his head in his hands then, shoulders slumping.

 

“You should help us,” he says after a moment, voice bordering on desperate. “You know it is the right thing to do. We’ve done nothing to warrant this bloodshed.”

 

You reach to him then, setting down your tea and taking his hand- forcing him to catch your gaze. Gaster looks at you, face crumpled in worry.

 

“You’re right,” you tell him softly. “It _would_ be the right thing. But the only reason I stand in this land is because I’m no longer allowed in my own. My country has turned its back on me. If I fight for you, I forfeit my right to live in the only place that would take me.”

 

“If you fight with us, we might win,” Gaster insists, and Sans thinks this must be an old argument. His father’s voice rings of repetition. “You could live with us, we would take you.”

 

You release his hand to throw your head back and laugh.

 

“Oh really?!”

 

Gaster glares, and you compose yourself enough to shake your head and say; “I’m thinking your young king’d not be agreeing to that.”

 

Sans watches with surprises as his father makes one of the most disgusted looks he has ever seen to date.

 

“That boy,” he hisses, “Is going to be the ruin-”

 

“Hush now,” you interrupt, suddenly alert. “He’s coming.”

 

And within mere seconds Asgore is entering the small cabin without even a knock, ducking his head to avoid the fame.

 

Sans has to bite back an audible gasp at his king’s appearance. He’s young. _Very_ young. Tall and lanky, but there is no beard resting on his face, and his horns are half the size they are now.

 

He looks unsurprised to see you, but he scowls at the two figures before him nonetheless.

 

“Speak of the devil,” you say with a smile.

 

“Your Highness,” Gaster begins, “What brings you here, and without any notice?”

 

Asgore narrows his gaze. “I am your king now, I go where I like.”

 

There is silence between the three then, and in it your voice lilts into Sans’ mind.

 

“ _You might not be able to tell,”_ you seem to whisper, _“but Asgore is furious that your father didn’t stand when he entered the room.”_

He notices then, your almost impressed look toward Gaster, who was still seated firmly in his chair by the fire.

 

“Something you needed, dear king?” the memory of you finally asks, crossing your ankles- the picture of relaxed indifference.

 

“I wanted an update on the terms of surrender,” Asgore said, refusing to meet your eyes, looking only to Gaster.

 

“The monsters surrender?”

 

He does look at you then, sneering and replying; “The _humans_ surrender.”

 

Your pressing your lips together, smile vanished.

 

It is Gaster that supplies; “Meara was telling me that President Jackson would allow us to occupy Mount Ebbot without further fighting.”

 

Asgore looks angry at this, and he steps closer to you, body filled with tension. “That Mountain is hardly large enough-”

 

“ _Under_ the mountain, your highness,” Gaster interrupts, and Asgore’s eyes widen.

 

“Under… **_UNDER_**?!”

 

He is even closer to you now, and Sans notices for the first time that he grips the hilt of an enormous trident from over his shoulder. It is clearly meant to be threatening, but you gaze nonplussed from his hand to his angry face.

 

“You would herd us as you might cattle?” he snarls. “You would hide us away, keep us in the dark?!”

 

Gaster stands. “Your Highness, I must ask you to step away from my guest-”

 

But you’ve stood now too, motioning to Gaster that he should not proceed as he was, that he should keep quiet.

 

“ _I_ would not have you go anywhere, you silly nag,” you intone, and Sans sees a flush on your cheeks that he thinks might indicate anger. “Well, perhaps _you_ ,” you amend icily. “But your people? Nay. I enjoy your people very much. I’d see them go wherever they may like.”

 

“You speak to me out of turn-”

 

“You’re _not_ my King, thank you very much,” you snap, and the hardness in your voice is filled with dislike for the monster that stands before you. “I’ll speak to you as the ass you’re being, and no differently.”

 

Asgore, who looks ready to explode with anger, is forced to step back as Gaster forces himself between the two of you.

 

“My king,” he begins. “ _Please_ , I must implore you again. Offer Meara sanctuary. She can turn the tide. She can protect our race. Give her a place with us and we can _defeat_ the humans.”

 

The trident is slipped from his sheath then, and Asgore slams the butt of it onto the floor of the cabin in a show of rage.

 

“She is one of them!” he rages, teeth bared and eyes filled with a fiery rage. “They call her The Crimson Sword! She is no better than the other countless mages who walk around wearing the skins of our people as cloaks! Who murder our children and leave mass graves in the wake of their raids! Her leader marches into battles with the _horns of my father_ hung from his _belt_! And you want me to grant her _sanctuary?_ ”

 

Sans thinks his father looks as though he’d argue, but you’ve raised your hands in a show of giving up, and have begun to walk to the door.

 

“You are very kind Gaster,” you say over your shoulder. “I hope we might have tea again.”

 

“You are to stay away from my people,” Asgore snarls at your retreating figure, but Gaster ignores him to say, “You are always welcome here, Meara.”

 

You give his father a forced smile, and then you are gone, and the memory fades to black.

 

When he can focus again, Sans looks into your green eyes with astonishment.

 

“we lost.”

 

It’s all his sluggish mind seems to be able to say.

 

You give him a sad half smile and release his hands, shrugging.

 

“I knew you would.”

 

Sans shakes his head. “why were you there? as an ambassador…?”

 

You nod. “Eh… sort of. There was no one else who would discuss terms with the monsters, and vice versa. Though, your father and mother were the only ones who’d speak to me. Asgore hated me on principal, and that hate extended to nearly all the other monsters.”

 

“did he… did he ever offer you sanctuary?”

 

You shake your head. “Oh no, he wouldn’t. The head mage killed his father. Asgore was made king much to young, and he was angry. Nothing your father or I could have said would have made him try and recruit me to his side.”

 

Sans’ head seems to swim. Once again a million questions race through his mind, and he struggled to grasp onto one.

 

“uh... your voice?”

 

“Irish,” you reply with a smile. “But I’ve been in America for a long time now.”

 

“and my dad? did you speak to him again?”

 

You look suddenly sad when you answer. “One last time in his home, then again as he went into the underground.”

 

“what...what did he say?”

 

Now that he knew you had really known his father, Sans wanted nothing more than to hear of him. He still remembered so little, and being able to see him, to hear him, it filled him with a nearly delirious joy.

 

“In his home we spoke briefly of what going underground would mean,” you told him. “The Monsters were going to lose- it had become glaringly apparent. I had come here, to the underground, to see what the conditions would be like. I told him what your race would need to survive. I told him what to expect. I offered to hide Gaster and your mother in my home but… He wouldn’t leave his fellow monsters to a hell that he could not endure himself. Plus, you mother was hurt, and he knew she needed to be cared for, not stowed away as a fugitive.

 

“...And the last time… as he walked into the mouth of the underground…”

 

You stop, worrying at your bottom lip.

 

“Here, let me show you,” you say, and you hold your hands out to him once more.

 

There is no hesitation this time. Sans takes your hands eagerly, and he welcomes the blackness that blots out the hall around him.

 

When the colors focus, he stands outside, under an open grey sky that promises snow. The scene is vaguely familiar to him, and he realizes suddenly, as his eyes scan the area, that you stand outside where the barrier will be placed. You are nearly lost in a large crowd of people that surround either side of the narrow dirt road that leads into the mouth of the underground. On the path, droves of monsters shuffle into the unwelcoming darkness, looking for all the world as though they are being swallowed by it. The mood is more than somber, and a tightness fills Sans chest at the scene. Some of the monsters sob, mothers clutch their children and try to give comfort, others look stoic or frightened.

 

From where he stands next to you, Sans sees that you watch with narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks. He can practically feel the anger that radiates off of you, rolling from you in towering waves.

 

“This is wrong.”

 

Next to you a man with dark hair and… _horns at his belt,_ (Sans stares at them in open horror, realizing at once that this is the man who killed Asgore’s father- who _murdered_ the former king) scoffs at you and gives a derisive laugh.

 

“These cunts are lucky they aren’t skewered through!” he says, voice carrying so that the crowd around him laughs and murmurs in agreement.

 

You give him a disgusted look up and down, and he returns your gaze with a salacious one.

 

“You are no more of a man than these monsters,” you tell him, voice quiet so that only he might hear.

 

He leans into you then, body aligning with yours in what Sans recognizes as a show of dominance, and speaks clearly of something that makes him more than uncomfortable.

 

“I will show you how much of a man I am, Meara of the Sea and Sky. I will take whatever memories that skeletal beast may have given to you, and I will replace them with a lust you will never be rid of.”

 

He grips your arm now, head dipping to hiss his words into your ear. Sans thinks you look ready to rip him apart as you jerk from his hold, pushing him away roughly.

 

“Touch me ever again and I will turn you inside out,” you snarl.

 

You look as though you might say more to the man, who looks delighted at your fury, but you’re interrupted by a voice calling from the path.

 

“Meara!”

 

Your head whips, and Sans watches you find his father's tall form in the crowd of monsters. You throw one last look of distaste to the man next to you before breaking away from the rest of the humans to join Gaster. When you reach him, you take his hand.

 

“I’m sorry, friend,” you say, and Sans watches your eyes fill with tears. “I wish you’d let me hide you away from this fate.”

 

Gaster smiles down at you. “Nonsense. We are but parting for a short while.”

 

Tears spill down your cheeks. “I don’t think-”

 

Gaster shushes you, laying a hand gently over your own, “It is easier to say we will see each other soon.”

 

Your breath hitches then, but you nod.

 

In the crowd of humans, the dark haired man with the horns of Asgore’s father yells; “Into the underground you devil! Keep away from our women!”

 

Gaster’s face contorts at the words, but you keep him from turning to look at the man by tugging on his shoulder.

 

“It’s James, don’t provoke him.”

 

Gaster grimaces down at you. It looks as though he might be grappling with his next words.

 

“Just say them,” you say- voice desperate. “You’ll not get another chance.”

 

“You must kill that man,” he tells you on a rush- as though he must say it quickly or not at all. “I know we’ve argued on this point, but I was wrong.”

 

You are nodding in agreement. “I’m challenging him, next full moon. It’s been too hard, with all the other mages about- you were right about that. But things will have calmed, and I will have a chance then. I just wish I had done it sooner, then maybe…”

 

“It would have been folly. Do not think on it, you did what was right.” Gaster squeezes your hand then. “Please be careful.”

 

You laugh a little though tears that still fall freely. “You know I’ll win.”

 

There is a rise in voices then, and Sans notices that it has come down to the last few monsters.

 

One of them is another skeleton.

 

When she approaches, you reach out a hand and pull her into a circle of both Gaster’s and your own arms, pressing her forehead to your own.

“Please take care of him, Ariel.”

 

Sans’ mother gives a choked sob. “With my very last breath,” she replies, and you hold them more tightly then, a loud cry escaping your throat.

The noises of the crowd are picking up, hostile yells and cruel jeers, and it is Gaster who pulls away.

 

“We must go, Meara.”

 

You nod, releasing Ariel but still gripping Gaster’s hand.

 

“Please be careful,” you tell him.

 

He smiles a little at that, as though perhaps there is some double meaning to your words that Sans is unaware of.

 

“I will see you again, for tea,” he says kindly, but you can do nothing more but nod and swipe the tears away from your eyes.

They leave then, Gaster releasing your hand and taking his wife’s.

 

Just before he disappears into the dark mouth of the cave, you call out, “Teach that king of yours some manners!” and Sans hears his father laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

The memories make you feel suddenly flooded with sorrow. It was so very long ago, and you’ve not thought of them for so long. With Gaster and Ariel both gone it is with unhappy revelation that you realize you will never get the reunion Gaster promised. Here and now, both of your friends have died, and you are all that is left of an unhappy history.

 

Sans, who looks determined not to cry, has not yet released his hold on your hands.

 

“they made you close your friends in?”

 

You affirm with a nod. “I had already refused to fight with them. I could not refuse that task as well. I consoled myself with the fact that they would be safe from humans, at the very least.”

 

His hands slip from yours then, slowly stuffed back into his pockets as he looks to you, mind obviously reeling.

 

“that other man… with the horns on his belt… _?_ ”

 

“He is very dead,” you reply.

 

“and what he said? about… you know… about you and my father?”

 

It takes you a moment to comprehend what his awkward words are asking.

 

“What? … _Oh_!” It hits you, suddenly, and you have the decency to blush. “Oh, _no_! No, no, no! James was convinced that I had some sordid affair with monsters, but no! Gaster was my friend, Ariel was my friend. We never… _I_ never…”

 

“heh, just checking,” he says with a shuffling of feet and a raise of color to his cheek bones.

 

“Oh god, that would be terrible,” you say, pushing down the horror that tries to overtake you as you realize Sans had thought, for a moment, that you had slept with his father. “Oh, that would be so awkward,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands momentarily as embarrassment washes over you.

 

“heh, yeah.”

 

It’s with his response that the grounded part of your mind realizes that your reaction is the direct effect of this _damn room_. All this out of character embarrassment, the candidness of your words, it’s a direct result of the yellow magic that surrounds you.

 

“Oh my god, get me out of this fucking room,” you huff, dropping your hands from your face and striding over to Frisk- lifting them with hurried ease.

 

Behind you Sans laughs a little and follows you from the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

When your reach the door to the throne room, you stand before it unmoving. A part of you wants to drag Asgore by the horns to where you know the coffins of the fallen children lay- perhaps seal him in the room for all eternity. Another, baser, part of you would like to kill him on sight, to rip off his horns and perhaps hang then above the door to your home. You remember a younger Asgore, one who was reckless and ill-tempered and stubborn. You know that he has changed, that the memories you’ve read from Frisk and Sans are full of a wiser, more level headed king. But… it doesn't change the fact that he has murdered children.

 

_Or that he would not listen to reason_ , a small part of you seems to whisper, reminding you of screaming matches had in Gaster’s home with the imposing king- you nearly screeching that he was wrong, that he _knew_ he was wrong, and he bellowing that he would march happily into the underground if it meant never having to speak to you again.

 

_“Prideful, arrogant, immoral-_ ”

 

“uh, you okay?”

 

You jerk, not realizing you’ve spoken out loud.

 

“Oh… yeah. Sorry, I just… It’s been a long time, and Asgore and I never really got along.”

 

Sans smirks at you. “heh, yeah, i gathered that.”

 

“Plus, you know, he wants to murder Frisk.”

 

“yeah, trust me, i know.”

 

This makes you scowl a little.

 

“Doesn’t that _bother_ you?”

 

Sans cocks his head to the side a little at that.

 

“yeah, course it does.”

 

“Not only that; but he’s killed _children_ , Sans. There is a room of coffins just down the hall.”

 

You’re looking at him, brows furrowed, and you can feel the frustration welling up in you.

 

Sans sighs. “i know what he’s done. i know what he wants to do. it’s not as cut and dry as you make it out to be but… i’ve always known that what asgore was doing was wrong. he might have thought it was for the greater good but… that was never a good enough excuse. not for me, anyway.”

 

He looks up at you, eyes a little bright. “if it matters at all, i can tell you that he changes. he realizes that what he’s done is unforgiveable. i’m sure whatever guilt he’ll have to live with is a worse punishment than what you could think of.”

 

“Not likely,” you snort. “I can think of terrible things to punish that man with.”

 

He hums a little with laughter, then shrugs. “i won’t stop you from doin’ what you want,” he says. “but if you kill him, none of the others will trust you.”

 

You press your lips together, knowing the immediate truth of these words and disliking them nonetheless.

 

Finally you nod, decision made. You hand Frisk over to Sans, telling him with heated intensity to keep them safe. He nods, cradling Frisk gently against his chest.

 

You steel yourself then, holding your breath and entering the throne room.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s gardening.

 

You wonder acidly if the man has any other hobbies, or if he’s just perpetually here, tending to his flowers.

 

You say nothing, just stand at the door, Sans at your side, waiting for him to turn and notice you.

 

“You’re here early, Undy-“

 

He stops midsentence, frozen, it seems.

 

“…Meara?”

 

It’s whispered, shocked, and you can’t help the smirk that escapes your lips.

 

“Asgore.”

 

Silence. It permeates. Next to you Sans holds his breath.

 

Whatever you expected (and to be honest- it was a fight) what happens next is not it.

 

Asgore approaches with cautious steps, eyes wide and disbelieving.

 

And then he is on his knees before you, paws digging into the grass before your feet. When he speaks, it is with a trembling voice.

 

“Please. Please forgive me.”

 

You can’t help it. Anger rises in you, filling your head so that it swims with fury. It is as though a great storm has gathered inside you, and here in this room everything darkens. All around you grass blackens and dies, the dirt at your feet drying and cracking.

 

“ **What are you sorry for?”**

 

Your voice is like a clap of thunder, and in your peripherals Sans jumps, and Frisk jerks awake.

 

Asgore trembles at your feet, bowing his head even lower, so that it touches the dead earth.

 

“For everything. You were right. You were _always_ right. And I have waited all these years to tell you so.”

 

You have to get ahold of yourself, because with this statement your anger has only multiplied. You can feel the wind as it whips around you, and feel your feet lift so that the toe of your boots is all that scrapes against the ground. If you were to look into a mirror, you’d no longer see green eyes, you know, but instead an iris of black. You clench your fists and close your eyes.

 

_Breathe._

 

Then, you feel a hand take yours.

 

You look. Frisk is no longer in his arms, instead they stand next to him, wide eyed and watching.

 

Sans grips your hand more tightly.

 

“it’ll be alright,” he says, nearly yelling it over the sound of howling wind.

 

For just a moment, the anger swells, it tries to emerge like a leviathan from the sea. And then it breaks, and you let it go. It leaves you in a rush, power ebbing, the room clearing and filling with light.

 

You feel your feet plant firmly on the ground.

 

He tries to slip his hand away then, but you hold it tightly for just a moment longer.

 

“Thanks,” you say after a moment, looking at him with serious eyes, hoping you convey the depth of this statement with your look.

 

He smiles a little at you. “s’no problem.”

 

You let his hand drop then, looking down at the king who still bows at your feet.

 

“Get up, Asgore,” you bite, voice filled with disgust.

 

He hesitates, then stands, head down and refusing to meet your eyes, feet shuffling.

 

You have control of your anger now, and you breathe through your nose and exhale from your mouth- aware that it still plays at the edges of your mind- toeing between returning with a force, or dissipating all together. It is a dangerous state to be in, you know. This cusp of rage that borders on insanity is not a safe place to be- experience had proved that you stand now on the edge of a parapet- your power capable of returning and wreaking utter devastation.

 

You continue to breathe steady, measured breath’s, and you are nearly convinced you have yourself under control when you see Asgore glance to Frisk.

 

You see the thought. See his realization that a human child stands before him now. That, perhaps, he will be able to take one last soul.

 

There is just a moment for you to realize that it’s all back. All the anger you just smothered is slamming back into you like a tidal wave, and you have a second to gasp.

 

You think, _this is about to get ugly,_ and then your hands are grasping each side of Asgore’s head, your grip vice-like.

Then it all goes black.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments and kudos give me life. <3
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the flashbacks. Expect many more for the duration of this story. Any spelling errors will be fixed when I'm not sitting at work. :P


	4. It Will Be Like Brand New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You let the knowledge that you would have fought alongside the monsters, if only he had allowed it, soak in his mind so that it might fester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bow wrapping brought to you by- Shitty Bow Wrappers of America; "Wrapping bows that always unravel for over 10 years!"

 

Sans had to hold Frisk back. They had shoved your jacket from their shoulders, the brown leather flying to a corner of the throne room- carried violently by the fierce wind that pushed everything this way and that, turning the chamber into the equivalent of a mighty gale. When they began to run to where you and Asgore stood, Sans had the wherewithal to snap to attention- pushing away the vestigial of distracted shock that had immobilized him- grabbing Frisk by the back of their sweater and tugging them shapely to his chest.

* **She can’t! They have to stop!** *

Sans clutched them more tightly, his body trying to shelter the child from the unnatural environment that surrounded them.

“you can’t interfere kid!” he yelled over the howling wind, bracing against the onslaught and taking several steps backwards with Frisk in tow.

Frisk struggled fruitlessly against him for a moment, and then, with a horrified gasp at the scene that lay before them, turned their head and hid it in Sans jacket.

Sans looked on- unflinching.

* * *

 

You didn’t hear the wind, didn’t feel it as it ripped through the room around you. It came from you, after all, and so it did not touch you. Instead you poured memories into Asgore’s mind, your anger causing them to slam into him like a battering ram, assaulting every fiber of his being.

Memories of the war between monsters and men. Memories of the fights and the battles that had been suffered all those years ago. But, mostly, you pile on the memories of all the pain he’s caused you. The battles he’d lost because he’d been unwilling to adhere your counsel. The ally that he had dismissed because of a prejudice he harbored- because of hate that had filled him. The friendships he’d ripped you from because of his stubbornness.

You let the knowledge that you _would_ have fought alongside the monsters, if only he had allowed it, soak in his mind so that it might fester.

And then you are showing him the present, pushing seven years of resets into his consciousness all at once. You show him Flowey, show him what his son has become and fill him with awareness. You show him Chara, show him the ghost of his daughter as she murders his people methodically- show him Toriel’s death over and over.

You especially assault him with the memories of fighting Frisk. Of the times he had won and lost the fight, and the mercy Frisk had shown him on so many occasions. And through all of this you hope he breaks. You hope the knowledge of this hell he has unknowingly lived in- _seven years_ \- will rip him apart.

He’s on his knees with it, at least, and you bow over him, teeth bared and eyes shot with a blackness that is as absolute as pitch. Your fingers dig into his skull, and with just an ounce more of pressure his head might collapse. Through the contact you’ve made you see the deaths of his own children, his devastation and anger that followed. You see Toriel’s departure and his misery that comes with it.

You see, too, the swift way in which he dispatches of the fallen children, killing them quickly and pushing away the guilt that clings to him like a cloak.

You hear their pleas for mercy, and you watch as he ignores.

The wind around you picks up, swirling and howling with energy. When you speak, it is not in your usual tone, nor is it in an anger that might be considered normal on any other occasion. This voice is an echoing shriek, unearthly and chilling.

“ _You_   _should be dead,_ ” you scream, hated for the monster before you filling every part of you. Under your fingers Asgore shudders and spasms. Blood begins to trickle from his snout and his breathing comes in wheezing death rattles.

It is now that you can feel the teetering moment of decision. You have reached the peak of your anger, and it is in this instance that it threatens to truly spill over. The line you toe between the life and death of the monster you hold is upon you, and a quiet clarity washes over you. It is like standing in the passive eye of a hurricane. This is it. _This_ is the moment you make the decision.

Asgore either lives, or he dies now by your hands.

A voice that comes from your past, soft and sweet, whispers a reminder to you; _You hold a life in your hands, Meara._  

It is a kind, steady voice, but it makes you flinch as if you’ve been scolded.

And then, as quickly and as violently as it came, it is over.

The wind stops. The memories end.

You step away from Asgore, fisting your hands as though that might be the only way to keep them at your sides. You feel them begin to shake, feel a tremor run up your body.

He lies in a heap at your feet, and the sound of your labored breathing is lost as he sobs and moans- clutching his head between his own paws now.

It takes you a moment as you process what has happened, and in this moment you try and catch your breath. You take several large steps backwards, feeling for the back wall and sliding down into a sitting position when you get to it. You grasp at the breast your shirt, fisting the material in your hand as you try and calm your racing heart. Your head is beginning to throb, and the shaking in your hands has not yet subsided. You glance to your left, and there Sans stares at you wide eyed, a shaken Frisk tucked into the opening of his jacket.

“Fuck,” you say, and then an unsettling panic sets in. You let your eyes sweep over the massive monster laid before you, who still weeps uncontrollably, and your heart stutters with realized shock.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit._ ”

It has been a long time since you have lost control like that. A long time since the darkness of uncontrollable rage has blind sighted you so completely. It is like an entity of its own, you know, and it leaves you feeling drained- vision spotting.

 _I have to fix him_ , you think urgently.

Seven year of resets, the stress of all the turmoil he’s actually gone through, it is all too much to take in at once- and violently at that. You _have_ to mend this break you’ve caused on his mind. And quickly, you know.

If not, then…

Panic grips you at the thought, and you’re scrambling to him, crawling as fast as your tired body can to the king that you have broken.

“meara?”

You ignore Sans, and with arms that scream in protest you shove Asgore onto his back. Your whole body feels like jelly, your stomach rolling with bile. Your energy had waned to near nonexistence, the display of absolutely unnecessary power having drained you of nearly all your energy.

When Asgore sees your face looming above his own, he flinches violently and attempts to push himself away from you. You struggle to grab him as your head swims with dizziness, and for a moment you think you might black out. Finally, with one shaking hand, you grab one of Asgore’s paws- the other reaching out and lying on his forehead, pressing so that his head cannot jerk away from your touch- as it tries.

It’s dark then, and you have to clench your teeth and rely on willpower alone to focus- determined not to pass out.

“Focus,” you breathe, unaware the word has been spoken aloud.

You have fix this.

_You have to fix this!_

* * *

 

Sans watches you as you hastily scramble to heal the break in his king's mind, and he knows, without hesitation, that you are stronger than him. The realization makes him suddenly nervous.

He’d known you were powerful, to be sure. Had known that you were much older than your appearance might suggest, and that you’d thus had more experience. But Sans had been in battle mode for seven years, and while he was weak in the sense that it took very little to kill him, he was also more than capable of handling himself in combat.

He’d thought that maybe, _maybe_ , he would have been able to hold his own against you if it had come to it. That his own power might match yours. That the Gaster Blasters he was able to summon would tip the scale. When he had seen your eyes turn black and your feet lift from the air, it had given him small comfort that- if the time came- he would be able to stop, or perhaps delay any destruction you might someday wreak.

He’d been so very wrong.

Seeing the power overtake you, seeing you drown by it, it was evidence enough that he would never be a match to you, never be able to hinder any devastation that you might unleash. Not only because he had realized the magnitude in which your power had manifested, but that there had been the potential for _more_. Sans had seen your moment of decision- had seen that you’d had the opportunity to continue, to not spare Asgore but to destroy him completely.  

It had been on mere willpower alone that you had been able to pull yourself together.

Normally Sans might think that the loss of control might be a weakness- that it might be enough to exploit that weakness and use it against you if he may ever need the chance. But he was far too weak, and he knew of no one who might come close to matching what he had seen from you thus far.

It was as if Sans' power was the equivalent of a mere lake, and yours the vastness of the ocean.

And the most harrowing part of all of this was that Sans imagined this was just a _scraping_ of your potential. That whatever powers you may have, this was barely a scratch on the surface. Truly, he had seen you do wonderful, amazing things. You had healed, you had vanquished. You had overpowered Asgore- which was no small feat- and you had done all of it easily. But you had told Frisk that you had many abilities when you had held their crying form against your own and tried to sooth them from the loss of Chara. You had said; “ _I was like you once. I had all this power, and no one to show me how to use it. I can read minds if I want. I can kill with a thought and a little bit of power. I can manipulate water. I can… well, I can do a lot of things.”_

As Sans watched you fix Asgore (it was clear that you had panicked at the sight of what you had done, and that you were doing for Asgore what you had also done for him) he felt a small consolation that you seemed to be drained of energy. You had begun to shake all over, and even lifting your arms looked like a tasking feat. This was knowledge he tucked away for future use- because if you became too angry, too powerful, too threatening, all Sans would have to do was wait you out.

So when you finished, body collapsing over Asgore’s chest, Sans felt relieved that, in a way, you had at least one weakness he knew of.

He held on to the knowledge, and let it comfort him.

* * *

 

It took an hour for you to rouse.

You woke slowly, coming to consciousness bit by bit. Soft voices spoke, and you could feel a warmth spread over you. Someone had laid your jacket over you, and without really thinking you burrowed under it further, welcoming the heaviness of the leather, breathing in the familiar smell.

When you finally opened your eyes, it was to Frisk’s looming face.

* **Are you alive?** *

You smiled.

“It would take a lot more to kill me than a bit of exhaustion,” you tell them, and their worried eyes relax as a small smile tugs at their lips.

You sit up slowly, let the world right itself around you. You’re still in the throne room, and under you are a hundred golden flowers. Frisk sits next to you, taking your hand into their own and squeezing it, worried eyes searching your face.

* **Sans said to let you sleep.** *

You look around for the skeleton, and see that he is sat by the door to the Throne Room, leaning beside it with closed eyes.

“thought you’d be out longer than this though,” he says without opening his eyes.

Yawning, you look down at your watch you see it’s been just over an hour, and shrug. “It doesn’t take long to recuperate,” you tell him. “I passed out once during The Battle of Balance. Took a whole day to recover, and I used a lot more energy than that.”

You stretch, and when your fingers crack he opens his eyes to peer at you.

“how do you protect yourself then, if you’re knocked out?” he asks, and you can tell instantly that his casualness is over exaggerated. You look at him, prodding slightly with your mind, and you can feel the shield he’s erected around his thoughts, closing you off from whatever it is he’s thinking. It’s not surprising; many people that don’t even have magical abilities are able to create a shield of some sort- the minds instinctual defense to protect from control and inspection.

You smirk. “If you had tried to kill me while I was out… you’d have found it a little more difficult than you might think.”

He narrows his eyes at you, and you know that your intuition is correct. He is _looking_ for your weaknesses.

Not that you blame him. Not after what he’s seen here.

But he doesn’t pry, and you don’t elaborate. Let him wonder what you mean. You aren’t one to go revealing all your powers or flaws. Instead you look around and ask; “Where is Asgore?”

Sans stands and walks to you, and you accept his offered hand and let him help pull you to your feet, letting Frisk’s palm slip from your own. When you are on two feet, he stuffs his fists back into his pockets and shrugs.

“he woke up about ten minutes ago. went to the next room to pull himself together, i think.”

You nod. That made sense. You’d fixed him, to be sure. You’d made the events chronological, and you’d taken away the panic that came with the flood of information you had forced on his mind. But the knowledge of the resets and how long they had been happening, the knowledge of Flowy and the flowers true identity, the knowledge of Chara and what she had become; it was all so much to process.

You motion for your two companions to wait in the Throne Room for you as you head the direction Sans indicated Asgore has gone.

When you step through the doors, your breath leaves you in a rush.

Before you lies the Barrier.

* * *

 

“Could you really have made a difference?”

You jump a little. You hadn’t even noticed him- you’d been so captivated by the wall of solid light that lay before you. He’s off to the side a bit, watching the pulsing light that traps him and all his people in the underground, and you know that he has done this now thousands of times.

You hesitate, then nod. “I could have kept you from this fate, yes.”

Why lie? He’s knows the truth now anyway, and to lie would mean nothing.

Asgore hangs his head.

“I was young, and foolish,” he whispers. “But as years went by… I changed. You _saw_ that I changed.”

He looks to you, eyes pleading for you to affirm this statement, and you nod in agreement. He did change. You had seen, in your assault of his mind, that he had not stayed the same hot tempered and rash king that you had known. Gaster and Ariel had changed him. His people had changed him. His children had changed him.

 _Toriel_ had changed him.

“But when my children died,” he continued, voice thick and solemn, “I fell back into my old ways. I knew it was wrong, but I ignored my conscious to instead pursue revenge. What I have done… it is unforgiveable.”

It’s quiet then, and you press your lips together to keep yourself from consoling him. As much as you know his words to be true, he does not deserve to be forgiven- and it is not for you to forgive.

Finally you say, “I have no words of comfort for you. There is nothing I can say to ease the pain of your past. And there is nothing I would do to absolve you of your sins.”

You pause, letting your words sink in, then add, “But you are not evil, Asgore. Foolish. Misguided. Blinded. But not evil.”

He looks to you and gives you a sad smile. “I wasted much time hating you, Meara of the Sea and Sky.”

You hum a little at the title. It has been a very long time since you have been called that, and you tell him so.

“Oh?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “Before we came here, it was how you were greeted at all times, unless you were being called The Crimson Sword, or The Hands of Death.”

“I am just Meara now,” you tell him with a small laugh, and he shakes his head.

“You have never been _just Meara_.”

You sigh and nod. This is true. Even when you were younger, you had never been _just Meara_. Your people had made sure of it- casting titles of power that you’d not even deserved then. Titles that were long forgotten by anyone still living.

“I see now why you are here,” Asgore says. “Will you truly destroy the barrier?”

“I will,” you say, and your voice is confident. “It shouldn’t be so hard, but I’ll wait for your wife to get here.”

“My wife?” There is some surprise in his voice, along with poorly masked panic.

“Toriel needs to know what had happened. She needs to be able to guide Frisk. She’s their mother, after all.”

Asgore looks away from you, eyes guilty and shoulders slumped.

“I have dishonored her.”

Again, you fight the natural urge to comfort him- to tell him his words are not true.

You will not lie to this man. He _has_ dishonored her.

“She was always too good for you,” you say instead, and this makes Asgore smile.

“Oh yes, I know that now. I thought of your words to me very much on that point- trapped here all these years. She is a star, and I am now only able to gaze from afar.”

The words that are not spoken are clear. That he’d held the star once. That he had kept it and called it his own.

You go leave him and head back to the Throne Room, but before you do you stop and look to him.

“The souls… I need them.”

He doesn’t immediately respond, just stands and looks over the barrier, his posture portraying that of a man defeated.

Finally, with a wave of his hand, the canisters appear.

You take them, all six glass containers floating behind you as you leave the room to rejoin Sans and Frisk.

The last empty one is left behind, and you are glad that it was never filled.

* * *

 

Fixing it, so that the memories of all monsters are aligned with only one timeline, is easy. You choose the best possible timeline in Frisk’s seven year adventure, sending out the memory of love and happiness with a crack of power that sounds exactly of thunder. Except with it, you add your presence. You are there now, a false memory weaved in the minds of all monsters, standing at Frisks side as they defeat and befriend. You protect them, you help them, and you tell all that you are here to break the barrier.

As soon as the thunder subsides monsters across the underground are filled with the knowledge that today, Meara and Frisk will free them from the Underground. In her lab, Alphys gathers together the Amalgamates- ready to return them to their families, excited to start her new friendship ( _relationship?!_ -an excited part of her trills) with Undyne.

And Undyne, with Papyrus, gathers what little clothes she has left and prepares to head to the barrier, convincing the enthusiastic skeleton that he won’t need his car bed just yet. The grin spread over her face shows all her sharp teeth, and she can’t help the feeling of elation that washes over her- caught up in Papyrus’ enthusiasm as he walks with her to New Home.

And in her home, Toriel awakes with a start. She reads your note, hand clutched to her chest as her eyes skim over the words. Then she is off- racing to New Home as fast as she’s able- knowing that the memories she has are not all they seem.

You let Frisk and Sans and Asgore have your new version of events as well- not erasing but adding the memories to their own- knowing that they will need to be able to confirm and recite this illusion to keep it unwavering.

“I could let your brother know the truth too,” you tell Sans, but he shakes his head.

“no, s’ok. he’ll be better off knowin’ this version,” he responds with a tap to his skull.

That strikes you as sweet, and you smile a little. You’re excited to meet Papyrus, excited to see Gasters other son and know him truly (not these fake memories that have already established you in a good light).

Even more though, you are excited to meet Undyne.

Sea magic. You finally have a potential friend who shares _sea magic_.

 _I’m going to take her to the ocean,_ you think with enthusiasm.  

It’s then that a thought hits you. Monsters live… well, not forever, but for a _very_ long time. You glance at the short skeleton beside you. He’s young- the equivalent of Twenty-Five now that you’ve aged him up seven years. But his father was old. His king and queen, they are old. The race in general…

It’s old.

If you befriend them, you might not have to watch a loved one die for a _very_ long time. You can live among people who also possess magic, and who aren’t prone to destroy all they touch. And what’s more (your heart races) you can show them all you’ve learned.

You can show them all you love.

Books, music, food. The ocean, the desert, the forest that surrounds your house. Everything you love- it’s nearly new to all of them. You can take them to New York and stand at the top of Empire State Building. You can take them to Japan and show them where the Battle of Balance ended. You can stay here and show them Washington- take them to the Market, to the Space Needle, to the museums.

You can take them home, to Ireland, and show them every inch of your beloved country.

You can show them every movie ever made.

You can teach Papyrus how to cook.

You can show Mettaton modern journalism.

You can send Alphys to whatever school she likes and watch her become a doctor, or a scientist, or- hell, even an astronaut.

And Sans…

You glance down at him.

You can show Sans the stars.

You can live with purpose. You can experience all these things, and it will be as though they were new. You might live happily for at least a bit longer.

The excitement of all these rapid realizations has colored your cheeks, and you bounce on your toes a little.

“uh… you alright meara?”

You nod, smile bright and full.

“I’m great.”

* * *

 

Over the next hour, Sans is witness to many things that shake him to his core.

The first is Toriel bursting into the Throne room, collapsing into a sobbing pile at Meara’s feet and repeating over and over; “It’s you… It’s _really you_.”

It only takes a minute before you’ve righted her world, one hand on her head and the other at her paw, and when she comes too Sans watches with awkward uneasiness as you hold her crying form.

“ _My children_ ,” is all he can understand.

Not that Sans could blame her. The knowledge of what both her children had become seems to Sans something that even a powerful mage like you can’t fix. As Frisk wedges their way between you and Toriel, holding onto their goat mother in a tight hug, Sans realizes then that if she is aware of what had happened to her children, she also knows of the times he had fought with Frisk and Chara, and knows that- on many occasions- he’d had to resort to killing them.

It makes him both nervous and guilty, and he tried to disappear into a corner of the Throne Room and not draw attention to himself. His feelings are compounded however when- after a few minutes of holding her tightly, you let her go and ask Sans to follow you, and Toriel’s eyes meet his own.

He sees, for just a moment, an unmasked look of anger that is directed his way.

Not wanting to be alone with her, feeling like the worst sort of intruder, he follows you quickly from the hall. He ignores the canisters of souls that float eerily behind you- as though they are being carried by invisible hands.

Just another small demonstration of your easy use of magic.

The two of you walk in silence, and he’s surprised that you head down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time down into the basement. It makes his heart sink a bit as he realizes where it is that you are heading.

The coffins are small.

Much, _much_ too small.

“It was James-the head mage with the horns at his belt- who made it so the barrier could only be broken by children souls,” you say to him, and Sans watches as your face pulls into sadness, fingers reaching down to run over the coffin labeled with an orange heart. He remembers the orange of your own soul and frowns, shifting uneasily.

“He knew,” you continued, “That the monsters found it abhorrent that humans killed children. Soldiers would raid whole monster villages, and none would be spared. All that would be left was empty homes and thick layers of dust. Both Asgore and his father were devastated by the loss of their young. James took it as a weakness.”

You sigh, and Sans can’t help the question that bursts from his mouth.

“why didn’t you just fight with the monsters, if you felt so bad for them? if humans were so terrible, why sit on the sidelines? if you really could have helped, you should have just ignored asgore and done it.”

There’s a lacing of bitterness and accusation that he can’t hide in his tone.

You raise a brow and look at him, then- as though defeated- you nod. “You’re right.”

After a moment of silence you add; “Not that it’s a very good excuse but… I had just been exiled from my country… I didn’t want to be banned from another.”

Sans says nothing, not able to think of what to say, and you turn and look at the coffins once more, moving now to the one marked with a green heart. He thinks he sees you nod in resolution, and wonders why you wanted to come here, of all places.

“do you need the souls to break the barrier?”

You sigh, stepping away from the coffins and shaking your head. “No. They will be five souls with no purpose,” you answer, sliding your backpack from your shoulders and letting it sit between your feet. “I helped make the barrier, I don’t need souls to break it.”

As you unzip the bag, leaning down and reaching into it, he glances at the canisters and says, “uh… you mean six souls.”

It’s then he gets his second shock.

“No, I mean five.”

When you stand, you hold an angry flower in your hands.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look, we're in Wasington! *use of Washingotn location will not lead to crossovers with any other fandoms- including but not limited to; Frasier, Sleepless in Seattle, Grey's Anatomy, Twin Peaks, and CERTAINLY not with the travesties know as Twilight and 50 Shades*
> 
> Leave comments, loves. It fills up my heart and gets my fingers itchy for typing.


	5. Awaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “i think… i think that’s the most amazing thing i’ve ever seen,” he says quietly, and you know he’s talking about Asriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, but absolutely necessary.

_"God damn right, you should be scared of me"_

-Control, By Halsey

* * *

 

 

“Let… _Me_ … **_GO_**!”

 

You laugh down at the flower, taking an index finger and tapping it on his forehead.

 

“I’m sorry,” you say down to him, “I just can’t take you seriously. You’re too cute!”

 

When he snarls and tries to bite your finger, you only laugh more. “Oh stop being so dramatic,” you tell him with a scoff. You only just stop yourself from making cooing noises, because, really, he’s the most adorable flower. Especially when he’s angry.

 

“uh… meara?”

 

You look up to find a weary looking Sans.

 

“I know,” you tell him simply, not really wanting to spend time listening to cautions that you are already aware of. “He’s dangerous, I know.”

 

It’s hard not be flippant though.

 

In your clenched fist the flower struggles. “You IDIOT, you’re ruining **_E V E R Y T H I N G_** !”

 

Deciding to take this a little more seriously, you stop smiling and purse your lips into a forced frown. “Stop that,” you hiss. “You’re being ridiculous.”

 

With a wave of your free hand, one of the canisters containing a soul moves forward- floating towards you apart from the rest.

 

“Listen to me,” you snap at the flower, bringing him so that he is eye level. “I’m going to give you a second chance. So stop being such a little shit and _listen._ ”

 

The struggling flower freezes then, catching sight of the canister moving toward you.

 

“What… What are you doing?!”

 

He seems panicked, suddenly, and your brows furrow.

 

“I can’t fix you if you don’t have a soul,” you tell him, eyes narrowed.

 

“I don’t want it!”

 

He’s struggling again, and in your peripheral you see Sans edge closer to the two of you.

 

“No, you want _all_ of them,” you say, rolling your eyes and huffing noisily. “Asriel; The God of Hyperdeath, wasn’t that it? But you’ll only get _one_ this time.”

 

When the canister comes to a halt in front of you, you nod towards it. “Listen to me, Asriel,” you say once more, this time adding a little shake to get the flowers attention. “I am giving you a second chance at life- but I’m giving them one too.”

 

Flowey looks frightened at your words, his head whipping back and forth from the soul that levitates before him, then to you, and then back to the soul.

 

“…T-them?”

 

“Asriel, meet Lucy.”

 

If a flower could go pale, he would have. Instead he seems to temporarily have lost the ability to speak, little mouth hanging open.

 

“I figured green,” you supply, nodding toward the bright heart. “And Lucy was a sweet human- when she was alive.”

 

Flowey’s mouth works for a moment, then he says, in a small voice, “I… I don’t want-”

 

“I don’t care,” you tell him, and your voice has softened. “This isn’t an option, kid. I’m not letting you leave the Underground as a soulless flower, and I won’t leave you down here, either. …You’re mom needs you, Asriel.”

 

You sigh heavily, face pinched as you realize you have not convinced the tiny prince in your hands of anything. His face is a mixture of equal parts frightened and furious, and you know that there is nothing you can say that might convince him this is a good idea.

 

“Let’s just get this over with,” you exhale, voice tired and patience wearing.

 

“No, wait!”

 

He’s more than frightened now- he’s terrified, struggling in your hands once more, fat tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. But you move quickly, the canister open and the bright green soul immersing painlessly into the flowers body, all in the blink of an eye.

 

He’s stock still in your hand, stiff with shock, and Sans starts to ask you if it worked. But he’s cut off when the flower gives a pitiful little wail, face shifting into a thousand different faces, little body jerking from your hands to spasm at your feet.

 

You move quickly then, on your knees next to the grotesquely shifting flower, hand cupping his morphing face.

 

And then, there is darkness,

 

* * *

 

The memories of the fallen human with the green soul are faint- barely registering compared to the scale of Asriel’s own thoughts. But you know this will work to an advantage- an empty vessel full of memories and a soul lacking a body (and therefore a mind capable of comprehensive thought) would mesh into one almost seamlessly. It might not work so well if the soul was corrupted, or if the host was unwilling.

 

But the soul of Lucy Regents, a young teen who had been gone now for thirty years, had been as near to innocent as a child could be. You see the faint impressions that were left on her soul. Her love for her mother and father and sister, her passion for cooking, her kindness to all she encountered. You saw a timid personality, one that was endearing on a chubby cheeked blonde that was late to bloom into womanhood. And you see her journey up the mountain with her family, a leisure hike turned into a nightmare.

 

It’s as though a weight of sadness is chained to your heart, and you have to physically push that old anger that threatens to build away- your mind severing it as neatly as it can. Still, it doesn’t stop a flare of momentary rage at the injustice of her death, and it is a rage you still direct towards Asgore.

 

You remember her death from the kings memories. Of all the fallen children, she had begged for mercy the most - had not fought- but had curled in on herself and cried for her mother.

 

And then, her cries had turned into silence, and they had stayed that way for decades.

 

As for the host, you coax him into the correct form, helping Asriel change into the small child he once was. You fill him with coherent memories of the past seven years, and you let the soul instill in him a sense of empathy and humanity- both traits he has been seriously lacking.

 

When you open your eyes you are holding a small crying child, and staring into the wide eyed face of Sans.

 

“Just another day, right?” You say with a laugh, attempting levity in what you know to be a humorless situation. In fact, you feel a wetness that can only be tears touch your own cheeks, and you bend your head to wipe them away with your shoulder, clutching Asriel more tightly than ever.

 

Sans just stares, and says nothing.

 

* * *

 

Sans almost can’t breathe, he is so overcome with varying emotion.

 

A Prince had formed before his very eyes, and it makes his chest feel tight just thinking of the reunion that will take place any moment now. Mother and Son, Father and Son, they will be brought together once more. You will carry Asriel into the Throne Room, and deposit him into the arms of a mother who has had her whole life ripped from her, one loved one at a time.

 

He can’t even imagine the elation, the shock, that Toriel will be in.

 

But on top of all that, Sans is cautious. It is as though a litany of red flags have materialized in his mind.

 

 _this is too much power for one person to have_. It is the only thought that fills him, seeming to scream a warning into every fiber of his being.

 

 _think, sans,_ the skeleton tells himself. _what powers do you know she has?_

 

The need to know this, to have it categorized in his mind, is almost overwhelming.

 

_she said she could control water. she can make life from discarded souls. she can read minds and show memories- who knows if they’re real. she can make and break barriers. she can levitate objects. … what else, what else?_

He feels panicky. How was he supposed to protect everyone from someone like _you_?

 

 _she can break minds,_ he reminds himself- thinking back to Asgore’s shaking form as he was assaulted by your power. _and she can move around unnoticed,_ he remembers, thinking back to how you walked through the Underground- not a single monster taking notice of you or any that traveled with you.

 

It hits him then, that you traveled from the outskirts of Snowdin to the Throne Room more quickly than any normal person should, and he adds whatever power that might be to his growing list.

 

_she can plant fake memories… she made everyone think she’s been here the whole time. everyone thinks she’s some savior, that she’s a friend- and they’ve really never even met her. the only ones who know the truth are me, asgore, toriel, an’ the kid. …could she take that away from us? could she make us forget?_

 

He remembers your anger, the way it overrode your own conscious and dictated your actions, and he can’t help but wonder what you would do if you were ever angry with him, or his brother.

 

_i can’t protect papyrus. i can’t protect any of them._

 

It is this thought that nearly breaks him all over again, and he knows in that moment that he _must_ learn all he can about you, about your powers. He _must_ figure out what your weaknesses are, and how to defeat you if the time ever comes.

 

And until then, he strengthens the shield around his mind, turning his thoughts into a fortress that keeps the likes of you out, and hopes that you never try and break it down.

 

* * *

 

Toriel has calmed when you enter the Throne room, her voice soft as she speaks to Frisk- probably telling them about how she knows you. Next to her stands Undyne and Papyrus, and they both wave cheerily to you and call you by name, as though you are an old friend, eagerness in their voices for the event they know lies ahead. Their happiness of leaving the Underground is palpable, and they talk to each other in excited voices.

 

And then the room is so very quiet. Toriel catches sight of you, sees the child you cradle in your arms, and her voice leaves her.

 

Asriel wiggles his body until he’s slipped from your arms, standing before you to look timidly at his mother.

 

“… Mom?”

 

Her cry is a mix of surprise and elation and shock and disbelief all rolled into one, and has no describable sound. And then she is rushing to him, on her knees and holding him so tightly- as though he might be an apparition that could fade away. And through it all she cries, and this time she repeats his name over and over.

 

You have lived a very long time, but in this moment, you can’t think of one thing that has ever touched you more than the scene now before you.

 

Then Frisk is there, and Toriel adds them to her hug, head bowed between each of them. And then Asgore ventures to the room- no doubt hearing the cries and coming to investigate- and Toriel lifts Asriel, handing him to his father and only able to say, “Our son… Our _son_!”

 

You feel like your heart might explode.

 

Then you slip into the next room, motioning for Sans to follow.

 

* * *

 

You both stand before the barrier, looking at its massive form in quiet reflection.

 

“i think… i think that’s the most amazing thing i’ve ever seen,” he says quietly, and you know he’s talking about Asriel.

 

“Yeah… me too.”

 

He gives a low chuckle, and you look at him with a smile.

 

“It’s true. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am right now… Maybe a long time ago, but that’s all over now.”

 

You both stand in silence for a while longer, the light pulsing before you.

 

“are you leaving the souls here?”

 

You had left the canisters in the basement, each sitting on their respective coffin, and you tell Sans that, yes, you plan for them to stay that way.

 

“One day I’ll come back here, once I figure out what to do with them. I’d like to release them, but I don’t know how to do that without absorbing them.”

 

He nods. “yeah… you don’t need any extra power.”

 

The way he says it makes you tilt your head, hearing the twinge of derisiveness in his voice.

 

“You’re mad at me,” you say, turning to look at him with raised brows, and you can’t help the surprise that laces your voice- or the hurt.

 

He looks for a moment as though he might deny it, but then he sighs heavily and returns your gaze.

 

“i ain’t mad, meara. just…”

 

He trails off, but you can connect the dots from here.

 

“You’re shielding your thoughts… I noticed it when I woke up, in the Throne Room,” you say. “You’re _afraid_ of me.”

 

His face pulls in distaste, obviously not fond of being told he is frightened of anything.

 

But he doesn’t deny it.

 

Instead he says, “you could kill us all.”

 

You press your lips together. “But I won’t.”

 

“heh… I’ve known you… two, maybe three hours?”

 

There is a long stretch of silence, and it builds uncomfortably between you.

 

“I’m about to free all of you,” you begin, and even to your own ears it sounds brash and assuming. “Not that- not that I think you should trust me just because of that but… But I wouldn’t do it if I had some nefarious plot to kill everyone, would I?”

 

For a moment you think he’ll argue with you, but his face relaxes, and he shrugs and smiles.

 

“yeah, you’re right.”

 

You stare at him, unsmiling. It’s clear he has let the issue go, not wanting to start a fight ( _because he’s afraid of you_ ) and it more than stings.

 

He’s afraid of you.

 

He doesn’t trust you.

 

He doesn’t _like_ you.

 

 _How_ had you fucked this up?

 

“I… I want you to trust me,” you say, and immediately you hear how this sounds. Like because you want it, it should be so.

 

“yeah, I do.”

 

Lying. _He’s lying_.

 

But it is clear he won’t argue with you, and any assurances you might give him at this point will ring false. Already it has begun to sound as though you are defending your character for the sake of pride.

 

 _I’ll show him he can trust me,_ you decide, brows knit with worry. _Actions speak louder than words, right?_

 

Still, you have to fight the urge to debate with him, to list the reasons why he should trust you. You know it would sound shallow and abrasive, but the need to do it almost overwhelms you.

 

 _He’ll change his mind. He’s Gasters son, we’re going to be friends._ And another thought, _Besides, I can show him all about his family. He’ll have to get to know me, and he’ll see that he can trust me._

 

But doubt twinges in the back of your mind, and you shift with discomfort.

 

With a worried mind, you reach out to the barrier.

 

For a moment nothing happens. Then, with a shake that tremors not only through the Underground, but can be felt underfoot by every living thing on earth, the barrier shatters.

 

And you know, just by looking at him, that you’ve made the task look too easy, because Sans’ eyes are full of distrust.

 

* * *

 

 

**He awakens.**

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Writer casually tosses a few wrenches into story and runs away*
> 
> Comment loves! I try to reply! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at; morning-sun-brah
> 
> ... Though, I barely know how to tumble.


	6. Old Meets New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s just… most of the old mages are gone. The younger ones… we’ve only read about you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps on screen* Is everyone still out there??

Power had awoken him.

 

It would have been faint to anyone else- a tremor underfoot, a chill up the spine. To him, it was as though an explosion had gone off, as though a volcano had erupted- and he was placed in the very center.

 

He’d thought, at first, that the world was ending.

 

A smile and a sigh, and he braced himself for oblivion.

 

It only took a moment in the darkness to realize that nothing was happening. The world still turned, the sun still shined, and life persevered.

 

But there had been power. _So much power._

 

Where had it come from? It had been enough that- here in the dark- he had felt it. It had awaken him, when he was not to be awoken. He was to stay here until the end of time, waiting for death in a world that he had grown weary of. And the power he’d felt? Gods above, it had been a fantastic thing. It had been enormous and distinct, and it left him feeling charged- as though he’d gained something from it.

 

A dark pleasure enveloped him then, a realization forming.

 

Someone was out there, someone with enough power to rouse him. _Him_ , the greatest of all mages.

 

With a great inhale of stale air, he stands.

 

* * *

 

 

You’re out in the sun, standing with your group of monsters and letting the warm rays beat down on you.

 

Around you, there is silence. The monsters you have emerged with seem incapable of words, and they are all content to let the sun- gone unseen for all this time- soak into their very soul. Beside you Toriel clutches both her children, tears still swimming in her eyes. To your left, Sans slips out of his jacket and turns his face to the sky. Next to Sans, Papyrus and Undyne bump hips impatiently, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders in easy camaraderie.  

 

It takes long, happily silent minutes before Asgore clears his throat and says, “Meara… What do we do now?”

 

All eyes are on you then, and you can’t help the smile that stretches your face.

 

“Now, we live.”

 

* * *

 

 

The walk down the slope to your mountain-side home is filled with chatter.

 

“It’s so warm!” Undyne exclaims, stretching her arm up towards the sun and wiggling her fingers.

 

“It’s summer!” You tell her. “It will be warm for a few more months now.”

 

“HUMAN,” Papyrus scream talks. “WHAT SORT OF BIRDS ARE THOSE?”

 

“That’s an Osprey,” you tell him with a glance at the sky. “A type of hawk.”

 

“WHAT IS A HAWK?”

 

“Just a really large bird.”

 

“Meara,” Toriel begins. “do you have any neighbors that we’re about to surprise?”

 

You laugh a little, navigating yourself down a particularly steep slope and reaching out to help Frisk- who has opted to walk.

“Not for many miles. This is all private property,” you tell her, watching her with nervous eyes as she maneuvers herself over a particularly rocky patch of earth. “Be careful, Toriel.”

 

The trees begin to grow a bit closer now, the ground evening out, and you lead the group to a little dirt path.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Hemlock.”

 

“WHAT’S THAT?!”

 

“A Goldfinch.”

 

“uh… what’s that?”

 

“My house!”

 

You can see the chimney in the distance, and you urge your party along by taking longer strides. As you near, the paddock comes into view, and Frisk gives a little squeal.

 

* **Horses?!** *

 

You laugh. “Yep. Four of them. I’ll teach you how to ride!”

 

Their eyes widen, as big as saucers as they look up at you.

 

* **Really?** *

 

“Yeah, ‘course! I have a donkey, too. And a cat. And there are chickens… Just, stay away from the rooster.”

 

* **Why?** *

 

“He’s mean,” you tell them. “He likes to try and rip up my arm with his claws.”   

 

They seem vaguely concerned about this, but with a whinny from the black and white paint as you approach the paddock, their worries scatter and they race to the fence. They stop short, looking up at the young American Paint with trepidation.

 

“Pet his nose!” You call out, jogging to catch up with them. When you reach them, they’re being nuzzled, and two of the other horses have wandered to the edge of the paddock to stick their heads over the fence and investigate the newcomer.

 

“This black and white one is Magnus,” you tell Frisk, reaching out and scratching the horse behind an ear. “The grey one here is Finn, and the brown one hasn’t been named. Those two are both Connemara Ponies.” You reach out and take the nosey red roan by the harness, pulling her closer to you and showing Frisk how to rub her velvety nose without being bit.

 

***They’re tall for ponies.***

 

You hum a little laugh and shake your head.

 

“Not all ponies are small.”

 

“WHAT ABOUT THat one human?”

 

Papyrus’ voice had lowered as the horses skid away from him, spooked by his loud tone, and you are pleasantly surprised that he’s able to control the volume of his voice at least some of the time.

 

“That is a Clydesdale,” you tell him, motioning for him to come and stand next to you. Across the paddock the huge bay perks its ears as you call it over with a clicking of tongue and teeth. When it gets to where you and Frisk and Papyrus stand, you have to take both of them by the arm and pull them back towards the fence.

 

“He’s a big baby,” you say, tugging his head down so that he can be pet by the child and monster at your side. “Which is why his name is Baby.”

 

Frisk giggles at this, and then louder when the mammoth draught horse huffs and shoves its nose into their hair.

 

***Why haven't you named the girl pony yet?***

 

You shrug. “I haven't had her long. I wasn’t planning on keeping her, honestly. But… I guess she’s mine now.”

 

Frisk looks like they might ask you why you hadn’t planned on keeping her, but Asriel has wriggled free from his mother to join them, and excited chatter turns into a game of tag with very little structure.

 

You spend most of the afternoon outside. None of the monsters seem to want to leave the view of sky and sun, and you can’t blame them. You take them to the creek that runs near your home, and Asriel and Frisk immediately begin exploring the area- Toriel watching them closely as they try and fail to catch the little frogs that poke their heads from the water. Undyne kicks her boots off, bare feet sliding over smooth stone as she walks through the water, shushing Papyrus, who follows her in a loud sloshing march. There is a small opening of trees, and Asgore sits apart from the rest of you, face turned upwards to the sun, eyes closed.

 

“this is as far as i’ve ever gotten.”

 

Sans has sidled up next to you, watching the scene before the two of you with amused eyes.

 

“You’ll get farther,” you say to him. “There’s no going back now.”

 

He makes a disbelieving face, then stops himself and seems to think about what you’ve said.  

 

“that’s true… isn’t it.”

 

It isn’t a question, just a surprised realization, and you smile at him and nod.

 

“No more resets,” you say softly.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s almost evening when you let them into your home, the sun beginning its descent across a purple sky.

 

“I WANT TO WATCH THE SUNSET!” Exclaims Papyrus, and you give him a sad smile.

 

“We’d have to be on higher ground,” you tell him. “The trees block you from seeing it.”

 

Seeing his disappointment you add, “But I can take you up the mountain later this week, and we can watch it!”

 

At this his expression grows delighted, and you can’t help but feel matched in enthusiasm, excitement welling up in you as you think of all the things you are about to do- all the things you might get to experience once more, as though they were new, through time spent with the monsters.

 

“People from the government will be here- probably tomorrow,” you tell the group, slipping off the leather jacket that you certainly didn’t need above ground and throwing it on the back of your couch. “There’s no way that the mages on their staff didn’t feel the barrier break.”

 

“Will they be hostile?” Asgore asks, standing awkwardly in the doorway, as though he is unsure of his welcome in your home.

 

You have to fight not to hedge the question.

 

“They… they might be. But… I’ll be here. No one’s going to fuck around with me.”

 

Toriel clears her throat and gives you a meaningful look.

 

“Huh?... _OH_! Sorry! Uh… no one is gonna _mess_ with me,” you amend.

 

Frisk and Asriel both giggle, and you give Toriel an apologetic look. It had been quite a while since you shared long periods of time with children- you were going to have to remember to watch your tongue.

 

“Will you be our ambassador?” Asgore asks, now farther into your home, looking around cautiously. You wonder if the enclosed space bothers him, but you think it might not be so bad. There are high window through the entire two stories of the house, and the walls around you are warm and sturdy cedar and pine wood.

 

“I will!” you reply, not even bothering to hide the eagerness in your voice. “There might be some backlash, but it will all work out. Until then, we can hire contractors to help build temporary homes for all the monsters, while you integrate into society. And all of you,” you nod to the monsters standing hesitant around you, “can stay here as long as you like.”

 

“REALLY, HUMAN?!”

 

You flinch as Papyrus’ animated voice breaks over you, loud and enthusiastic.

 

“Yeah, of course,” you tell him, cheeks in pain from the amount of smiling you seem to be doing. You can’t help it though. You are filled with happiness.

 

“I have plenty of room here,” you continue, speaking to all the monsters that have gathered in your living room with you. “And there’s an empty barn out back that I can turn into a guest house.”

 

Not noticing that she had wandered, you hear Undyne yell from across the living room; “Is that a **_POOL_**?!”

 

“Yeah,” you tell her happily. “But it’s empty! I’ll have it filled this week!”

 

“WHY DO YOU HAVE AN EMPTY POOL, HUMAN?”

 

“I don’t use it,” you reply simply.

 

Papyrus looks as though he might question this, but Toriel interrupts him to say, “Surely you don’t want all of us here.”

 

“Nonsense! I wouldn’t offer if I minded!”

 

“Does anyone else stay here with you?” she asks, eyes roaming the large space, arms full once more with both children- holding them as if they might disappear at any moment.

 

You bite the inside of your cheek and shake your head.

 

“… Nope. Just me!”

 

* * *

 

 

Sans immediately senses your discomfort, and again the little red warning flags begin to wave in his mind. In fact, they’ve been waving all day. Your talk of showing them around- speaking as though the arrangement will be long term. You have been planning ahead all day, it seems. Telling Undyne about the ocean, Toriel about the schools, Frisk about trips into Seattle. Hell, you’ve even talked to Asgore about areas near your home that grow rare flowers.

 

It’s as though you plan on having them with you… permanently.

 

“how long have you lived here?” he asks, voice the very definition of casual.

 

You turn and look at him, and your eyes are now cautious.

 

“A little over twenty years,” you respond, slipping your hands into the pockets of your jeans and rocking back on your heels.

 

“and you just happened to pick the bottom of mount ebott?”

 

Sans can immediately tell that he’s rankled you- your shoulders tense and your lips press into a thin white line.

 

You grimace and answer, “No, I was _sent_ to live here.”

 

The room grows quiet.

 

With a frustrated sigh, you elaborate, “I was asked to live here… as sort of a sentry. The mage that stayed here before me died, and the position was open. It’s why I don’t have neighbors. This land is all fenced off. No one is allowed to be anywhere near this mountain.”

 

It is as though a thread of hostility has edged its way into the conversation now.

 

“position, huh? so the humans just have mages guarding the mountain, makin’ sure none of the monsters escape?”

 

You make an annoyed tisking sound with tongue and teeth. “Basically.”

 

“and you’ve been here twenty years?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“so you didn’t release us twenty years ago because…?”

 

The two of you stare at each other, Sans the picture of composure while you simmer with frustration. The others openly watch your exchange, feet shuffling uncomfortably, eyes downcast.

 

Finally you exhale loudly, as though you’ve been holding your breath.

 

“Anyway, just make yourself at home,” you tell the room, “I’ll get something ready for dinner.”

 

And then you’re gone- around the corner and through an open archway that Sans thinks must hold the kitchen- leaving the group of monsters by themselves.

 

“SANS! THAT WAS VERY RUDE!”

 

He flinches a little at the admonishing tone in his brother's voice. He didn’t hate you. Hell, he didn’t even dislike you. And he hadn’t really meant to upset you, either. But Sans was on high alert, and this day had been one of the most astounding of his life. You were more powerful than anyone he had ever met, and the thought of letting go and just trusting you seemed beyond foolish- especially when there was still so little that had been explained.

 

“heh, yeah, I guess so,” he says to his brother, his smile self-effacing. “i’ll go apologize, paps.”

 

“I SHOULD THINK SO!”

 

He leaves the awkward group of monsters to find you, but not before hearing Asgore say; “He has a point.”

 

 _Good_. He can’t be the only one asking questions, the only one with reservations.

 

The only one who sees that everything isn’t adding up.

 

* * *

 

 

You’re in the middle of pouring yourself a large glass of wine when Sans enters the kitchen.

 

“It was illegal,” you say, setting the bottle of red wine down a little harder than you mean to and taking a large sip from your glass. “And I didn’t want to risk pissing off the government.”

 

He looks at you for a long moment, then shrugs and sits on one of the bar stools you have placed around your kitchen’s island.

 

“it’s different now…?”

 

He’s slouched across from you, elbows on the counter, chin resting lazily in hand. A trill of anger works through you as you realize that he’s figured out that he has made you angry- and that his flippant reactions seem to goad you further.

 

With a sour look you answer, “It just is. Twenty years ago I was trying to lay low, keep out of trouble.”

 

“so somethin’ changed?”

 

“I saw Frisk. I followed them. I worked on instinct. I didn’t give this years of thought, and I know it sounds mean but… I didn’t exactly plan on freeing all of you. I went down there to stop the resets. There wasn’t an agenda or a strategy or anything. Freeing you all… It just happened. It was the right thing to do.”

 

Sans raises a brow bone and asks, “you didn’t notice frisk all the other times? it took years of resets before you figured out what was goin’ on? didn’t you tell the kid that you’ve stopped time travelers before this? ”

 

With a grumpy sigh you begin pulling out ingredients for dinner from your refrigerator.

 

“I was different this time,” you mutter, then ask, “Do monsters eat meat anymore? Did you have meat in the Underground?”

 

“no meat underground,” he responds, lazy smile spread across his face.

 

“Pasta it is.”

 

The two of you stay silent after that, Sans watching as you prepare boxed fettuccine over boiling water- obviously waiting for you to answer his question.  

 

“It was just different,” you finally say again, standing across from him- slicing mushrooms.

 

“we’re going to be together for a while right? might as well tell me.”

 

When you look back on the statement later, you realize that you fell for a trap. But here and now, the question is simple enough, and you don’t catch the lure that was set.

 

“That’s true,” you mutter. “Here, help me slice these.”

 

You slide a knife to him, putting the bowl of fungi between the two of you and showing him how you want them sliced.

 

“The resets just caught me off guard,” you tell him. “I was meditating, and I didn’t notice them. As soon as I did, I followed Frisk into the Underground.”

 

“meditating?”

 

“Uh… yeah. It’s a way to relax.” You have zero plans on telling him that meditation means something entirely different to mages.

 

That you had been prepared to die was no one's business but your own.

 

But you add, “And I asked to be placed here, twenty years ago, you know. I wanted… I wanted to be close, in case your dad broke the barrier.”

 

When you look at him, you see he’s stopped slicing in favor of staring at you.

 

“did... did you know he was going to try?”

 

You take the mushrooms and place them in a skillet, walking to the stovetop and putting them on the burner- adding butter and fresh garlic to the mix.

 

“He talked about it,” you say, careful to keep any negative inflection from your voice. “I wasn’t sure… I wasn't sure what he had planned but… I knew he wouldn’t stay idle, you know? I guess I hoped he’d figure a way out. That way I wouldn’t be breaking the law, and I could help as an ally once you all emerged.”

 

You’re glad your back is turned. You may have lived a long life, but you’ve never exactly been great at lying. And these might be half-truths, but you don’t think Sans would appreciate them any more or less.

 

Especially hearing that you’re a contributing factor for the reason his father is dead.

 

You might have told him, before you’d realized he distrusted you so. You’d have explained to him _The Plan_. But now…

 

No reason to make him hate you more than he already does.

 

With that thought you turn to look at him.

 

“Listen, let's have a truce. I know you don’t trust me, but just… lets be civil, yeah?”

 

He isn’t smiling that placating smile anymore, and that’s something, you think.

 

“you know i don’t hate you, right?”

 

You scoff and turn back to the oven, working on the cream sauce now, adding parsley and pepper and whisking rapidly.

 

“it’s true,” he says. “i think everything you’ve done… i think it’s great meara. i just…”

 

You look over your shoulder at him as his speech falters.

 

After a moment of what seems to be spent searching for the right words, Sans says, “no one should be as powerful as you are. i don’t know how to protect everyone from someone like you.”

 

“I get it,” you tell him on a sigh, lowering the heat and turning to look at him. “But I’m here to protect all of you. You don’t have to worry about me.”

 

He gives you an incredulous look and you scrunch your nose at his unspoken words. “I know, I know,” you say, hands raised. “You’d be stupid to just trust me. But… we can be friends, too. Let’s just… let’s try and get to know each other. You’ve got all that god-awful yellow magic- you can use it when you think I might be lying.”

 

You see a spark in his eyes, and you instantly wish you hadn’t said anything- it’s obvious he hadn’t thought of this. And yellow magic… you shudder. You _hate_ yellow magic.

 

“deal,” he says, and you nod and give him a smile you know doesn’t reach your eyes, already thinking that you’ve made a terrible suggestion.

 

Sans looks elated.

 

* * *

 

As you predicted, government officials come in three black Humvees up the dirt road early the next morning. Military officials, presidential staff, homeland security officers, and one elated looking man that – as a quick peek at his thoughts revealed- worked as the sole employee for the Board of the Regulation of American Monsters.

 

You sit on an old wooden rocking chair on your porch, sipping your second cup of strong black coffee and sighing as one of the cars parks on top of a rose bush.

 

“ _Nice,_ ” you mutter.

 

You’ve been up waiting for them for hours, ignoring the government issued phone that had been screaming through your living room for the last two hours. It had been in this house since phones had been invented- updated through the years to keep up with technology- and was used as a way for officials to get into contact with whatever mage was living in the Ebott home at the time.

 

It had never rang for you before today.

 

Knowing that this could only mean they had a theory on the blast of power that you’d caused yesterday by breaking the barrier, and knowing that they certainly could track that blast of power back to you, you had roused Undyne before the sun came up, telling her to head up the mountain and retrieve Alphys- who was surely done reuniting the Amalgamates and packing together some of her things by now. Undyne had agreed eagerly, and you wondered if she had been frustrated at their separation- now that some of their mutual feelings had been exposed. You’d let both of them keep their memories of the junk yard date, after all.

 

Car doors slamming shut jolt you to attention, and you stand, holding your coffee mug in your hands and smiling benignly, letting the small swarm of officials (and the mousy Monster Registration worker) come to you- feet firmly planted on your top step. The man in the lead, who looks the most official of them all and who you correctly guess is a presidential liaison, stops just short of the first step and looks up at you. He’s got thick blonde hair, a very ordinary looking face, and looks as though he might double as an accountant- what with his blue pin stripe suit and thick glasses set in wire frames.

 

“Good morning,” he tells you simply, and you smile down at him. He’s blocking his thoughts, none of them reaching you, and you realize quickly that he’s a mage. Possibly even the mage who tracked the power of the break back to you.

 

“Good morning,” you reply simply, taking a sip of coffee and raising brows at the group gathered around you.

 

Let _them_ ask the questions.

 

“I can guess you know why we’re here,” he says, slipping hands into his pockets, and you almost laugh at his calm, even pleasant tone. He’s looks so nice- acts so friendly. He’d be a phenomenal negotiator, you think.

 

But the conversation has already gotten off on a bad foot, and hostility fills the air around you. You’re the head mage. There are titles and formal ways that you are supposed to be addressed.

 

He’s ignored them.

 

“A tracking mage,” you say down to him, and he gives you a toothy smile.

 

“Among other things, yes,” he confirms.

 

“What era were you born?”

 

His smile dies a little. “I uh… I was born in the eighties.”

 

“ _Eighteen_ Eighties?”

 

He shuffles a bit. “Uh… no. Nineteen eighty five… actually.”

 

“Ah,” you say, and you sip your coffee and look down at him, face blankly congenial.

 

He shuffles a little more, and it is obvious that he’s picked up on your not so subtle hint. “I didn’t think it was really something… I didn’t know that formalities-”

 

“Still existed?” You cut him off, expression still open and easy going. But something must have caught the attention of the rest of the group, something about your tone, because they all seem to suddenly realize you’ve been offended, and they shift in discomfort.

 

A sweat has broken out on the blondes forehead, eyes panicked. And then, with a bit of a stumble, he goes to his knees.

 

“Lady Meara of Larne,” he begins, a tremble in his voice. “Rose of Ireland, Wielder of the Crimson Sword, Wielder of The Hands of Death and Life, Speaker to the Dead, Siren of the Sea…” he pauses, and you can see his mind working, thoughts scrambling to think of the titles he’s missed. “Champion of The Battle of Balance… Rose of- no, I said that… Uh… Meara of Larne, Oldest of our Kind, Slayer of Gods…”

 

You laugh a little and shake your head, and he looks up at you, expression panicked.

 

“It’s good enough,” you tell him. “Get up. Tell me why you’re here.”

 

He stands, and next to him another government looking type throws him a look of question. You hear the thought loud and clear; _Is everything alright?_

 

He shakes his head to indicate everything is fine, and you wonder if he actually believes it.

 

You’re also a little offended. Out of all these people, they’ve sent just one mage, it seems.

 

Ignoring a ping of annoyance, you focus on the blonde, keeping an open ear to the sparse thoughts of the rest. He is dusting the dirt from his pant legs and wiping his brow, looking shaken and as though he has nearly escaped a terrible fate.

 

“We felt the barrier break,” he tells you. “We’ve come to see what’s happened.”

 

You narrow your eyes at him. “You obviously know I broke the barrier,” you say to him, “so what exactly do you want to know?”

 

A man who is obviously a military official (it’s impossible not to identify him just by looks alone) comes to stand beside the blonde mage then. He’s older, with dark, shortly cropped hair that is greying at the temples and a face littered with razor thin scars. “Perhaps if we go inside-”

 

“I think we’re quite fine where we are,” you tell him, cutting off his words with a stern voice. You are no longer smiling.

 

The military official grimaces up at you. “I’ll remind you that you currently stand on government property.”

 

The blonde mage looks at the man, shaking his head as though to silently warn him against his words.

 

“If you think you can get past me to enter this home,” you say with a laugh, “I bid you to try,”

 

The blonde mage reaches out and grips the military official by the bicep- shaking his head.

 

“We’re _fine_ ,” he says, pointedly looking to the man and again shaking his head. “It’s a very nice day- all sun and sky. _We’re_ _fine outside_.”

 

The older man looks like he might argue, but you see his realization that he is grudgingly overpowered- the young mage obviously the one in charge of this meeting. He nods in affirmation to the blonde, and you sigh.

 

“What’s your name?” You ask.

 

The mage looks at you and gives an apologetic smile.

 

“Beau,” he tells you. “Beau Westfall. I’m the presidents head mage. And this is General Henry Carr- Vice Chairman of the Joint Chief of Staff.”

 

“Mr. Westfall,” you begin, ignoring General Carr completely in favor of speaking to the mage. “I broke the barrier yesterday afternoon. Monsters will begin their journey to the surface within the hour. I’m afraid that’s really all there is to say.”

 

Beau opens his mouth to speak, but the General steps towards you- one foot on your bottom step- and says, “You’ll need to be debriefed. The Monsters will have to be contained until we can decide how we are going to proceed.”

 

“Nope,” you say simply, shrugging your shoulders and sipping your coffee. It’s gone cold.

 

He works his jaw, drawing a sharp breath through his nose. “ _Nope_?” he intones, graveled voice derisive.

 

“Yes, nope. … It means no.”

 

General Carr’s jaw begins to rotate now- jutting angrily. “When you took this position,” he snaps, “it was to guard Mount Ebott, not break the barrier and-”

 

“ _And yet,_ that is what has happened,” you say, frowning down at your chilled coffee mug. You wonder if they would try and follow you if you left to refill your cup.

 

“Hold on a second,” you tell them, and you turn and enter your home, deciding coffee is much more important than the current conversation.

 

When the screen door closes behind you, you are greeted with a hall full of monsters, all having obviously been listening to the exchange outside.

 

“Oh! Good Morning!” you tell them all, smiling widely.

 

“ _What’s going on?!”_ Asgore whispers to you, eyes nervous. Toriel stands beside him, fiddling nervously with the hem of her sleeve, and next to her Sans watches you- eyes sharp and wearing an uncharacteristic frown. The children are still sleeping and Papyrus is missing, and you wonder if they’ve allocated him further in the house to keep him from giving them away- his voice too loud to try and effectively eavesdrop.  

 

“Having a chat with government officials,” you tell Asgore, a picture of calm. “I need more caffeine to keep it up though.”

 

You head to the kitchen, feeling them follow you, and refill your mug.

 

As you take a sip of the dark liquid Toriel asks, “Should… should we greet them as well?”

 

You peer at her over your mug. “… I’m not trying to block any of you from what’s happening. Stay at the door and listen. But let’s make sure this isn’t a hostile situation before you all go traipsing out there.”

 

“we _have_ been listening,” Sans supplies, then adds, “do _you_ think it’s hostile?”

 

You shrug. “It could be worse. There aren’t a whole swarm of people out there. It’s a contained situation- no media or anything like that. But there’s a military official that doesn’t want you to leave the mountain just yet, and they brought a mage with them.”

 

This makes Asgore visibly nervous, and you reassure him quickly that this is a nonissue.

 

“He’s young. Young enough that he must be powerful if he’s on the White House’s staff. But he’s no me.”

 

You catch Sans rolling his eyes- a circular swoop of pinpoint white pupils- and stop yourself from returning the look.

 

“It’s not boasting,” you tell him, smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “It’s just true.”

 

He says nothing, just burrows into his jacket and ignores your good mood.

 

And you _are_ in a good mood. This has been the most fun you’ve had in a while. Dealing on the opposite side of the government was something you’d mostly avoided since your arrival in America in 1832. You’d been forced to sign a sanctuary contract back then, and it had stood the test of time- it’s conditions just as cemented now as they were then. Sure, you had worked against them in secret at times- had made sure to align yourself on the right side of history and speak out when it was warranted. But treaties and bills and agreements had been made, and America had been left to shape its history without you, for the most part.

 

You think vaguely that you should have inserted yourself into more issues long before this, and sanctuary contract be damned.

 

But it’s too late now to change all that- too late for regrets.

 

Asgore and Toriel and Sans all follow you back to the hall, and they stand just out of view of the screen door- hidden by curtains with windows open, preparing to listen to the events unfolding just outside your front door.

 

You take a deep breath, hide your elated smile, and step back out onto your porch.

 

* * *

 

 

Sans feels like throwing something- preferably at your head.

 

Last night he’d slept in a spare room, laying on a twin bed opposite to his brother and thinking of ways to use his yellow magic to his advantage, planning on how he might use his ability of forcing honesty upon others against you. He’d relaxed a bit, thinking that- if your intentions became more than questionable, he could somehow filter out the truth from you and compel you to divulge what your objective might be with his magic (for, there was no way he could believe that you didn’t have some hidden agenda).

 

Sans had even warmed to the idea of spending time with you while everything was being sorted out with the government. You’d known his father, after all, and you had the ability to show him a past that he’d never dreamed of knowing before.

 

Decided that tomorrow was a new day, and happy to have at least a semblance of a plan, life had seemed to explode around him. Crickets chirped and bats flapped their leathery wings and- in the distance- a howl that he’d later learn was coyotes rang out in an echoing cry.

 

He was _out._ The Underground would soon be a terrible memory. In time, he will have lived longer than he ever spent down in that hole. And it was because of _you_.

 

He could give you a chance… Maybe.

 

He’d barely slept, full of anticipation- ready to start fresh in the morning.

 

But his fate was being left in your hands, _again_. And while he imagined that you could handle yourself- the idea that you would ruin everything and get them sent back underground, or involved in a potentially violent situation- flooded him with discomfort.

 

Nothing about this was in his control, and it was maddening.

 

He listens now through the open window, ignoring his grumbling stomach and his tired body, holding his breath and straining his neck to hear every part of the conversation outside.

 

When you stepped out your front door, it was obvious that while you were gone there had been some discussion by the men you’d left in your yard concerning how they should speak to you. The group is apologizing to you, introducing themselves, and insisting that everyone can behave with decorum.

 

And then they are telling you what they expect to happen now that the barrier has been broken, and it takes all the restraint Sans possess not to storm outside as he listens to directions you are being given.

 

“Until further notice, no monster should leave The Underground under any circumstance.”

 

“The mountain needs to be contained…”

 

“We’ll be sending troops…”

 

“Fly you to Washington…”

 

“ _No monsters should leave the Underground._ ”

 

Ignoring Toriel’s hiss of warning, Sans tweaks at the curtain and moves his head to peer cautiously at the scene in your front yard. Suits and ties gather around you, edging closer and closer as though they are well dressed predators that might think of you as prey. But you stand on your top step, intermittently sipping black coffee and looking completely at ease. Your back is turned to him, but you very much stand out from the rest- a sharp contrast of bright red hair and freckled skin, jeans and a ragged flannel tee, all separating you from monochrome suits and closely cut hairstyles.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say to them simply, effectively cutting off the outbursts around you. “I will not leave my home. If the powers that be would like to speak with me, then they can come here, to me.”

 

“We _are_ here,” the General snaps at you- the faint scars that litter his cheeks and brow pulling into white lines as he contorts his face into a sneer.

 

“ _You,_ ” you begin with emphasis, “are not the officials that are able to make _any_ decisions- certainly you aren’t ones who can negotiate any terms. You’ve been told what to say, what to do, and how to do it. But I am not _listening_ to these demands, and neither are any of the monsters from Mount Ebott.”

 

“ _I_ am the Vice Chairman of the Joint Chief of staff,” General Carr tells you sourly.

 

“And when did Vice become Head?” you ask him with a lacing of sarcasm. Sans watches the man’s eyes narrow at you in building fury.

 

Setting your coffee mug on the porch bannister and clasping your hands together in front of you, you say, “I will concede that- for the next two weeks only- the monsters will stay inside the fence that surrounds Mount Ebott. If no one has come to discuss terms of citizenship by the end of that two week period, then it will be assumed that there is no problem, and the monsters will integrate with society.”

 

Sans could see the group shift uncomfortably, some visibly upset, some frustrated or resigned. But none of them were more angry than the dark haired military official with the greying temples- who looked ready to spit vitriol.

 

“ _If you think_ -” he begins, but Beau the mage steps in front of him, voice raising to say, “I will certainly relay your wishes to the President.”

 

You smile at him with a slight acquiescing tilt of your head. Beau returns the gesture, then whistles to the group and ushers them back to the cars. Halfway to his own black Humvee he doubles back to you, and Sans hears him say; “I… I’m sorry again… About the introduction. I really didn’t think it was still something that needed done.”

 

You laugh and shrug. “Don’t they train White House Mages in etiquette?”

 

Your seemingly innocent question has made him very uncomfortable, and Sans watches him squirm.

 

“Uh… Not… Not since Nixon.”

 

He makes an apologetic gesture, and Sans is frustrated that he cannot see your facial features. You’re so quiet.

 

Finally you say, “I suppose I should have took more of an interest in what’s been going on the last few years.”

 

Beau hesitates, then says, “We uh… we thought you might not be around anymore- not until yesterday.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It’s just… most of the old mages are gone. The younger ones… we’ve only read about you.” He looks like he might say more, but a car horn blares out three short blasts, and he jumps and begins to edge away from your doorstep.

 

“I’ll see you soon, Meara of Larne,” he says, and gives an awkward wave before turning and trotting to the cars that await him.

 

To Sans dismay, he leaves behind more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real quick; for anyone positively certain that Meara is some sort of unblemished savior, listen to Sans! He knows something's up!
> 
> I didn't forget about anyone- I just got insanely busy in the last couple weeks, and every time I sat down to write I was interrupted. 
> 
> Spelling errors and such will be fixed as I find them. Until then- drop a kudos or a comment (or both)! They make my day!! Follow me on tumblr, too! I sometimes draw really terrible art and post about nonsense! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/morning-sun-brah


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